


criminal intentions

by khrysallis



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Blood and Violence, Chinese Triad, Drama, Gun Violence, M/M, Prostitution, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-24 14:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khrysallis/pseuds/khrysallis
Summary: In a world where violence is rampant and blood is constantly spilled for the sake of survival, love is the most uncanny thing they can find in each other.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So yes, this is the chaptered version of [deadly songbird](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10709736) (y'know, that badass!jongdae-with-a-katana fic) which I've promised. I'll be writing as I go, or maybe write several chapters before posting them up slowly in the future—I haven't yet decided the exact direction I'll be taking, though I already have an ending in mind—but I hope you guys enjoy regardless! 
> 
> Other side pairings and character tags will be updated as the story progresses too, but **be warned that this fic may include references to drug trafficking/abuse, prostitution etc.** a.k.a. Things which are supposed to exist in mafia!au. That also includes **graphic violence, blood, and gore**. (If you're not familiar with the full extent of my descriptions, you can take a read of _deadly songbird_ to get an idea!)
> 
> Just one thing, though: please don't pester me to update quick, lol.

The tension is palpable in the room when he walks in, so thick he could probably slice right through it with a knife if he tried. 

Whatever argument and clamouring he heard while on the other side of the door instantly dies down the moment he enters, and he can feel a dozen pair of eyes following his every movement as he ambles towards the front of the room. At first sight, the man who is chairing the meeting might seem harmless, with his youthful appearance, round, unassuming eyes, and relaxed posture. Everyone else in the room far surpasses the man in terms of age, which explains the distrust and resentment they all hold for him, but Xiumin did not earn the right to seat himself at the head of the table without reason. 

The location of the meeting is aptly chosen—not in the confines of a stuffy office tower, but in a tasteful, up-scale Japanese restaurant located in the middle of busy, busy Beijing. The room is adequately sound-proofed, owing to the restaurant's proximity to one of the busiest highways of the city; any and all conversation can only be heard if one gets close enough to the doors, and nothing else. The pair standing guard at the door are tasked with the responsibility of keeping snooping ears away too, and to alert the men in the room whenever the waiters of the restaurant are here to serve their meal. 

The arrangement is perfect, considering the topic of their conversation that evening. Behind the façade provided by their pristine suits and well-kempt appearances, hides a group of businessmen who are actively investing their illegally amassed wealth in the black market, earning even more riches from the trade of their choice—weapons, drugs, prostitution, contraband cigarettes and alcohol. These are just at the tip of the iceberg. It's not an easy task to accomplish, though, not with the police doing their jobs on the occasion, but that's what the meeting today is for. 

Xiumin is the man they need, to get the law enforcers off their backs, as well as the person to go to when their supply of goods run low. He has an impressive amount of influence on Beijing's murky underworld for someone so young, and a reputation to back it up. Anyone who needs to get a dirty job done _knows_ Xiumin is the one who can give them what they want. 

It doesn't necessarily mean they _tolerate_ his existence, however—not inwardly at least. 

Xiumin's reputation is a double-edged sword, in a way. For every person who worships the ground he walks upon, there are at least a dozen others who wishes he didn't exist, and would probably resort to extreme measures to get Xiumin out of the picture. He doesn't doubt that half the men in this room are harbouring such thoughts right now.

Xiumin knows of that fact, too, but he's not perturbed in the slightest. It's part of the game, when you're the head of the largest triad in Beijing, and it provides a vast majority of the thrill of sticking around. 

He's still acutely aware of the scrutinising looks the other people in the room are casting at him, even as he takes a seat next to Xiumin on the floor cushion, folding his legs neatly beneath himself and placing his hands primly on his lap. He knows how he must appear to the rest of them—prim, docile, pretty, and most of all, out of place in this dark world. Long lashes frame his eyes, casting shadows upon his high cheekbones and sharp facial features. Beauty marks dot his skin, down the angle of his jaw and the pale skin of his neck. He also knows what's catching their attention at this point of time; a purpling bruise right next to the prominence of his throat, left behind by none other than Xiumin himself. 

Xiumin has the tendency to leave marks on his property, but none of them as loud and bold as his declaration that Chen is _his_. And Chen wears them just as proudly, never bothering to cover up the love bites despite the attention or the disgusted looks he gets. He's more than used to standing beneath the spotlight, anyway. 

"So, gentlemen—" Xiumin speaks up again, his now-sharp eyes raking across the room to gauge their responses, his Chinese mildly accented around its edges. "—have you arrived at a consensus?" 

Chen only has a vague idea of what the meeting is about—division of business or something along the lines; Xiumin has reassured him time and again that there isn't a need for him to be even more involved with the underworld than he already is—but it doesn't take much for him to know that these men are trying to undermine Xiumin's position at the top of the vicious food chain. Their stances are defensive, giving off an air of faux superiority, and it makes Chen want to scoff, wondering if they'll ever realise that it's nigh impossible of a task to accomplish. Not with their current calibre, anyway. They're too much of a coward to do half the things Xiumin has done. 

True to his suspicions, the eldest-looking man in the group is the first to respond. "We want you to step down. Leave the business to us."

Xiumin quirks a curious brow at them. Under the table, Chen notices the way his hand is trembling slightly in anger, obvious only to the ones who know Xiumin well enough. He's not one to lose his temper easily—not before anyone else he doesn't trust, anyway. Chen is probably the only person who has witnessed the full extent of Xiumin's fury, but he decides it's best for him to stay mum about it. They need to have a taste of their own medicine sometimes, these men, to keep their feet firmly anchored to the ground. He can't say he feels sorry for anyone who incurs the unbridled wrath of Xiumin, though. 

"Because?" Xiumin wonders aloud once again, tilting his head to the side like a curious child would. Feigned innocence. "Have I made a mistake somewhere?" 

No one says a thing. No one can challenge that question, because Xiumin has always been extremely careful with his actions. There has never been an instance where their activities were nearly uncovered by the police—not even close. Xiumin plays a game where the stakes are high, but it doesn't mean that he's going to screw the consequences and be as reckless as he can. The process is as important as the returns they're gunning for. 

When the silence stretches on, Xiumin takes a quick sip of his _sake_ , then glances up at the rest of the guests in the room with him from the edge of his cup. "Right. I'm not of Chinese descent. That's my only mistake, isn't it?" He pushes on again, smiling saccharinely. Chen can see the way some of the men have stiffened at the statement, because it's true. The only beef they have with Xiumin stems from his nationality. Their stubborn pride wouldn't allow them to serve Xiumin because of it; it doesn't even matter that Xiumin had single-handedly filled their pockets with more money than they can ever earn on their own. And they're now trying to usurp his position, his empire which Xiumin has been building with his own hands over the last couple of years. 

To hell if Xiumin is going to allow that to happen. 

"If you already know—"

"Don't be naïve," Xiumin cuts the man off abruptly, his patience probably running thin, and he places his cup back on the table with a loud clatter. He's never one to interrupt someone else, the manners ingrained in him since he was a child. There are of course certain exceptions. "None of you are competent enough to take over my position, and you know it. Anyone who refuses to accept this fact are free to remove yourselves from this room."

There are several heartbeats' worth of silence after Xiumin issues the ultimatum, several gazes exchanged between some of the men in the room, as though engaged in a silent conversation amongst themselves. Chen watches all of this from a neutral point of view, as Xiumin wants him to. Sadly, he can't find himself being terribly sorry for these men. 

In the end, a grand total of three out of the ten men in pressed suits get to their feet, anger clouding their expressions as they stomp out of the room together. It's only then that those who still remain begin to pledge their utmost loyalty to Xiumin, telling him that they'd been forced by the other man to bring up that issue during the meeting. 

Then again, Xiumin probably knows they're all lying, from the way he's listening with feigned interest. He doesn't call them out, though, merely raising his _sake_ cup in a toast for their brand new business partnership. Chen joins in as well, even if he notices the questions unasked reflected in the men's eyes. He sees the way Xiumin exchanges a look with his right-hand man too, and knows that the men who had walked out of this room earlier would be dead within the week, bodies doomed to never be found. 

It is risky to allow them to roam freely on the streets of Beijing, when there is no one to seal their mouths. They could very well bring some evidence to the police, and it will threaten all of their livelihood in the long run. Xiumin won't allow that to happen, and silencing them for good is the only way to go. 

This is, after all, Xiumin's world now, and Chen is as much a part of it as he is in Xiumin's life. He takes a sip of his own cup of _sake_ and loses himself in the celebrations, erasing the existence of those men from his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note; the prologue is out of sequence. The fic-proper will start from the time when Jongdae and Minseok have not been acquainted.


	2. one

The frigid air transitions abruptly into stifling warmth the moment Jongdae enters through the back door of the building, and a full-bodied shiver wracks through him at the sudden change in ambient temperature. Large droplets of rainwater are dripping from the ends of his newly-bleached hair and long lashes, running down the high arch of his cheekbones to dampen his already-drenched clothes even more. A small puddle is beginning to form beneath his soggy pair of Converse, considering how the water continues to dribble from the hem of his pants. 

Everything feels so _heavy_ , and they're sagging off his frame. God damn it. 

He curses the unpredictable summer weather under his breath as he continues wringing the hem of his shirt dry in the doorway. There were absolutely no predictions of rain prior to this, the sun scorching hot on his back for the longest of time before the sky had suddenly decided to pour while Jongdae was commuting to work. He didn't have an umbrella with him—too heavy, too cumbersome to bring around, and he didn't care that he was going to get an uneven tan—so Jongdae had decided to screw it and sprinted the rest of the way to his workplace. He was already running late for his shift that evening, and it was impossible to seek shelter from the rain without risking losing his job. 

"Zhongda!" Someone yells his Chinese name just then, causing Jongdae to flinch at the volume, dread filling him at the thought of the reprimand that is sure to come. "Look at the mess you've made! Who on Earth is going to clean this up _and_ prevent the carpet from turning mouldy?!" 

It's his manager, a stout, middle-aged, balding man who goes by the name Zhenghe, who is yelling at him at this particular moment, face red from anger. He always pops up at the most inopportune of moments—always when Jongdae inevitably creates some sort of mess—and catches Jongdae before he could even do anything to rectify it. Jongdae is already close to being immune to his nagging by now, but sometimes the man can get _extra_ annoying. Just like now. And he refuses to let go of the goddamned subject of his precious carpet, going on and on and—

Wait. 

_The carpet—?_ Jongdae wonders, stopping his train of thoughts abruptly and turning around to identify the object in question. He doesn't remember seeing a carpet placed at the back door before this, and he's usually extremely observant of his surroundings. Besides, who in their right mind would place a _carpet_ at the back, when the entrance would only be used by the employees of the establishment, anyway? 

Clearly, his manager isn't someone who's quite right in his mind, when Jongdae finally spots the ugly brown carpet by the door. It's barely even visible in the dimly-lit walkway, but sure enough, the small puddle beneath Jongdae's feet is slowly seeping towards the carpet owing to the uneven floor, staining part of it a darker shade of brown. It looks like mud sediments at the bottom of a river. 

He's not even sorry for destroying it because it's _that_ hideous, but Jongdae needs the money to feed himself and to pay the bills with, so he begrudgingly holds his tongue. His salary is pretty decent, even if the hours are not, and he's happy enough that he gets paid to sing in this dingy old bar, tucked away in a quieter corner of Beijing. It's a good thing he looks like a local and speaks without an identifiable accent, too, because he's heard stories from his fellow countrymen, talking about how difficult it is for them to hold down a job in this city because of their nationality. Beijing has always favoured its locals over everyone else, even if the bar for survival is already pitched sky high for themselves. It's a miracle Jongdae didn't die from starvation upon coming here, more than half a decade ago. 

Such is the world these days. It's a bitter battle for survival. 

"I _told_ you not to leave the carpet around the back, Zhenghe," a sweet but still admonishing voice interjects before Jongdae can even open his mouth to utter a half-hearted word of apology, cutting Jongdae's manager off from his ongoing tirade on Jongdae's apparently lack of responsibility. Jongdae's heart leaps when he realises who it is, and a wide grin immediately spreads across his face the moment his manager turns around to regard the newcomer. 

Zhang Liyin is the epitome of perfect grace, an earthly goddess of her own right in Jongdae's books. She's the kindest person ever, probably the one and only Jongdae has had the pleasure to meet around these parts, with a motherly smile and gentle demeanour which makes her stand out from the rest. She was the one who had helped Jongdae when he'd first arrived in Beijing with no home to call his own and no acquaintances to depend upon, and has continued to help him five years down the line, even now. Jongdae has her to thank for this job, and for keeping him in it for so long, despite Zhenghe's many attempts at kicking him out. 

It's too bad the old man can't keep up with Jongdae's mischievousness. He needs to get himself a better sense of humour, and be less uptight about everything. If Jongdae doesn't know better, he would have thought that the man was walking around with a stick right up his ass. 

"Liyin! Are you defending this brat? Again?" Zhenghe's demeanour immediately changes to one of petulance when he sees her. Jongdae gags at the sight, and Liyin struggles to keep a straight face. It's not much of a secret that Jongdae dislikes Zhenghe to the ends of the earth, something which Liyin has reprimanded him for—to no avail. It'll be a cold day in hell before Jongdae would stop hating the man. "Look at my carpet!" 

Liyin shakes her head in exasperation, watching him gesture wildly at said object while continuing to rant away. A full minute passes them by—with Jongdae still trying to wring the water out of his clothes, Zhenghe's wrath be damned—before Liyin finally stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Jongdae thinks to himself how he would've just strangled the man silly if he were in Liyin's place, but perhaps that's the good part of their exchange right now. At least Jongdae won't find himself getting hauled off to jail for committing the crime of manslaughter. As it is, his fuse is running dangerously short, and he's _still_ fucking wet and cold from the rain. Not a good combination for sure. 

"Mr Zhenghe," Liyin says calmly, making sure she has his full attention. It's not difficult, when he's so enamoured by her. He'd probably be wagging his tail obediently as he awaits Liyin's next words, if he were a dog. The imagery makes Jongdae stifle yet another laugh by sucking on the insides of his cheeks. "Shall I explain to you once again why I believe this is a bad idea, and perhaps convince you to shift the carpet to the front door of your office?" She asks once he urges her to continue.

Jongdae finds it amazing, how Liyin is able to keep talking to Zhenghe while keeping her cool, but he notices the way Liyin is making eye contact with _him_ just then, and realises what she's trying to do. She smiles a little and makes a small shooing gesture with her hand on the side, which Jongdae catches on fairly easily.

Jongdae, of course, makes full use of this opportunity to make a quiet escape. He mouths his thanks at Liyin, whom responds with a subtle wink, before Jongdae tiptoes away from the area to his freedom and to change out from his thoroughly soaked clothes.

He doesn't think he'll ever be able to repay Liyin for the amount of kindness and help she's provided him with thus far.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

Even if he's succeeded in running away from Zhenghe's wrath, Jongdae should have known he couldn't escape from being reprimanded by Liyin eventually.

She enters his dressing room half an hour later, looking a little harassed but otherwise still stunningly elegant. She seems so out of place here in this dingy bar, with its stained brick walls and cushioned seats ripped in various places from the prolonged use. The place always reeks of nicotine and the questionable smell of piss and vomit, unable to be erased even with the generous use of air freshener—Jongdae still thinks the manager is a stingy asshole who _won't_ splurge on proper air fresheners which doesn't smell like or have the consistency of water, but that's a whole new argument for another day, really—but his olfactory senses are blessed the moment Liyin walks close enough to him. She always smells of strawberry or jasmine, her two favourite choices of perfume, and it drowns out the unbearable stench, at least. 

Liyin's hands are on her waist when she approaches him, a hint of disapproval on her expressions, but she's still wearing a faint, fond smile reserved for Jongdae. She's his half-sister from his mother's previous marriage, after all, but they had gotten along very well despite not having met before Jongdae had decided to come to China against his mother's wishes. They've been depending on each other ever since—more on Jongdae's part than Liyin, really, but Liyin doesn't begrudge Jongdae's presence at all. 

"How many times have I told you not to set Zhenghe off like that?" She asks, laughing as she takes a seat beside Jongdae. Jongdae is struggling with his eyeliner as usual, because he can't follow the contour of his eyes to save his own life. Damn his shaky hands. 

Jongdae pouts a little as he turns his chair around to look at Liyin, offering no resistance when she plucks the liquid liner out of his hand to get the job done for him. She's the one who breathes life into the performers hired by the bar, preparing their outfits long before they clock in for their shifts, and she would do their makeup too, for those who are less proficient with the art, to prevent them from creating a disaster out of their faces. Just like Jongdae. 

"It isn't even my fault this time," Jongdae says, keeping his eyes wide open while Liyin paints his eyes in masterful strokes. He tries not to talk when her hands are on his face, so his words come out choppy. It's not something Liyin isn't already used to, though. "I swear, he's out to get me. Why would he place that stupid carpet there to begin with?" 

This time, Liyin doesn't hold herself back from laughing. The tinkling sound calms Jongdae's agitation down a little, and her smile is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes for her to dab some eyeshadow on his lids. "That, I will not argue with you. I did try to talk some sense into Zhenghe, but as you know, he's too stubborn for his own good."

"Dictatorship," Jongdae grumbles in Korean, lest someone overhears their conversation, earning yet another laugh from Liyin. He knows Liyin can understand him, though—she's been learning the language for years, considering that her boyfriend is also Korean, and they have plans to settle down in South Korea eventually. She seems very serious with him, and marriage bells would be ringing in the air soon, if only her boyfriend would just get his shit together and propose to her. She's not getting any younger, and Liyin has even told Jongdae that she doesn't care if Junsu doesn't present her with a ring. Jongdae thinks Kim Junsu is an idiot in that sense, or perhaps he just has way too much confidence in himself to not lose her to someone else. 

Jongdae wonders if Liyin ever knows about the suspicious bruises littering Junsu's body, though. They don't seem self-inflicted, contrary to what he's been telling Jongdae whenever Jongdae questions him—from fights that happen away from the bar, perhaps, but Jongdae would never know for sure. Junsu is as secretive as it gets, and it's not like Jongdae is _that_ close to Junsu either, apart from talking to him at the bar between his sets whenever Junsu comes to visit Liyin at work. 

Liyin completes his makeup in record speed—faster than Jongdae can ever do it on his own, anyway—and her smile is gentle as she regards his look for the day. She had decided to dress him in a pair of tight leather pants which shows off the toned muscles of his legs, complementing it with a mesh shirt and a black leather jacket thrown on top. Liyin certainly knows how to bring out the best features of Jongdae's face as well, accentuating his eyes with a dark smoky effect and contouring his cheeks to highlight the sharpness of his high cheekbones, finishing the look with a thin sheen of pale pink gloss on his lips. Jongdae checks his reflection in the mirror once Liyin is done with her appraisal; he's never worn such bold make-up before, but he _loves_ it instantly. 

"Don't let him hear what you have to say about the way he runs things here. We're never going to hear the end of it, otherwise," Liyin chides, though she can't stop smiling at Jongdae's choice of description, switching effortlessly to the Korean language. Zhenghe can really be quite overbearing with his management methods, and that's a fact. Liyin is probably the only employee around here who can withstand it, though Jongdae attributes it to the fact that Zhenghe practically melts into a puddle of goo whenever she's within a hundred-metre radius from him, and thus gives her prefential treatment for how much he likes her. 

Jongdae just grins unrepentantly. "He can shove his opinions up his ass, where the sun doesn't shine," he tells her, cackling as he jumps out of the way when she tries to swat at him. 

"Go," Liyin commands him, torn between exasperation and amusement as she sees him out of the dressing room door. It's nearly time for Jongdae to start his set, and the crowd is beginning to thicken. He's not one of the bar's most popular singers for nothing. "Knock them out with your voice."

Jongdae winks at her in response, before slipping onto the small stage located at the front of the bar. 

The crowd erupts in a cacophony of hoots and whistles while Jongdae fixes his mic and communicates with the band of musicians behind him, confirming their set list for the evening. It's fairly similar in style with the sets he's done many other nights before this, starting off with a slow ballad before building the momentum with his rock numbers. It's proof of his versatility on stage, and Jongdae is pretty damned proud of his ability. Now he can only hope that some talent scout would wander into the bar one night and sign him up with a recording company, and Jongdae would have accomplished one of his lifelong goals. 

"Good evening, patrons of Rotten Love! How are y'all doing tonight?" Jongdae says into the mic, earning more cheers from the enthusiastic crowd. He lets his eyes rake through his audience, taking in every single face present—it's not a difficult feat to accomplish, when the bar isn't exactly huge to begin with, and half the room is in close enough proximity to the stage to see the details on his jacket—and committing them to memory. There are several of his regular fans here, and Jongdae makes sure to shower them with the extra attention they've more than earned over the last few years he's been performing here. 

Nevertheless, he stops at the sight of a new face, seated alone in the booth towards the back, nursing a bottle of Heineken against plush lips. The man is looks nowhere past the age of twenty five; probably one of the youngest in the room, even. His almond-shaped eyes are piercing as he meets Jongdae's gaze, and for the first time in a long while, Jongdae actually _flushes_ , feeling the tips of his ears go warm under the attention. He's been standing beneath the spotlight for many years, but not one member of the audience has had such a strong impact on him—until now. 

Jongdae honestly can't deny that the man looks extremely attractive, but this isn't the time to think about it. He has a crowd to entertain, so he forcibly removes his gaze from the man and focuses on another section instead, clearing his throat before nodding at the band to start his set. 

The man's gaze on Jongdae is unrelenting though, and it _burns_ into Jongdae's skin, making Jongdae feel warm under the collar as he continues singing his heart out. Jongdae knows attraction and desire when he sees it, and he _knows_ the heat isn't an effect of the spotlights shining upon him. He's convinced that the man _wants_ him, and he can't deny that he wants the man, either. He makes sure to throw subtle glances in the direction of the booth from time to time, turning his seduction game on until the very end. 

Even when Jongdae ends his set of ten songs, the man's gaze is still trained on him. Combined with the endorphins circulating in his bloodstream from the exhilaration of performing, Jongdae feels _good_. He's half-hard in his pants by now, probably obvious through the tight leather pants he's wearing tonight, but Jongdae doesn't check himself out on stage, not wanting to draw the attention away from his set. He thanks the audience for their passion, acting as natural as he possibly can, and exits the small stage without letting his discomfort show.

He doesn't reward the man with another glance, even if he _is_ a little desperate to get laid; Jongdae doesn't want to come off as _easy_. The way the man's gaze trails after him until Jongdae disappears behind the heavy velvet curtains that cuts off the main area of the bar from the back office is unmistakable, though, and the attention is pleasant enough to warm Jongdae's skin. 

Jongdae spends the rest of the night wondering if he'll ever see the man again. He certainly hopes it's not a one-off thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should remind you that this fic may progress rather slowly. Additional character tags will be added along the way as necessary.


	3. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, and is not intended to be a reflection of current state of affairs.

 

_A man in his mid-to-late thirties was found dead in a secluded alley in Beijing late last night. Initial investigations reveal that the man was stabbed multiple times in the abdomen—_

The crisp Chinese words broadcasting from the speakers catch Jongdae's attention, and he glances up at the television set mounted on the wall of the restaurant he's currently having his meal at, eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he tries to decipher what the newscaster is talking about. It's a bit of a challenge, with the din of the customers filling the air—the people in this part of Beijing can hardly control their volumes while conversing, and Jongdae has involuntarily overheard a number of things he didn't _need_ to know—even with his fairly good command of the language, but Jongdae manages to pick up the important points of the breaking news nonetheless. 

But that's where his concerns arise, once he's digested the gist of it. There has been a sharp rise in crime rates being reported by the evening news and the newspapers as of late, probably due to gang activity or something along those lines. Investigations are still ongoing, so Jongdae wouldn't know for sure. What he _does_ know, though, is the fact that his neighbourhood has seen an increase in unexplained deaths in the recent weeks. He doesn't doubt that the files are piling up on the desk of the local police station, adding to the ones which have been unsolved over the last few months, but he hopes the police will do their job soon—and efficiently. The people in his neighbourhood certainly can't spend the rest of their lives living in constant fear that they would be targeted next; there aren't any established patterns to these killing crimes yet, though it's probably fairly accurate to say that the murders are occurring at random. 

In other words, no one is safe. 

_—the police have mentioned that crime rate is on the rise, even if the latest murder incident was not committed as a robbery attempt. Citizens are advised to remain vigilant at all times, and to report to the police should you discover any suspicious activity—_

Jongdae continues to keep his eyes on the television set as he picks up the noodles from the bowl with his chopsticks, distractedly filling his mouth and chewing slowly as he follows the news. There are more reports on other crimes, such as an armed robbery happening in another area closer to the more affluent part of Beijing— _losses are estimated up to tens of millions_ , says the newscaster, expression grave. 

Jongdae nearly chokes on a particularly stubborn strand of noodle when he hears the estimated loss from the robbery. From only _one home_ , no less. While the rest of Beijing—and needless to say, the rest of China—are struggling with the rising living costs and meagre income, there are actually people who can afford to keep millions worth of items in their homes. He shudders when he thinks about the amount they might have stashed away in their bank accounts. 

The polarisation between different castes of society is much too great, but it's not as though Jongdae has any say about it. He wasn't even born in this country, but South Korea holds too much unwanted memories for him that he has no choice but to escape from them. It's all he's ever good at—running away—but he's determined to carve a brand new life for himself here in Beijing, where no one can accuse him of being a leech. He isn't exactly living extremely comfortably, but it will do for now. It's a lot better than starving on the streets without a roof above his head to shield him from the harsh elements. 

"Kim Jongdae! Can you please stop being such a sloppy eater?!" Someone calls him by his birth name just then, and before Jongdae can even respond, that person lands a hard slap on his back, causing Jongdae to drop the eating utensils he was holding into the bowl of noodles from shock. The soup splashes onto his face, and Jongdae reflexively screws his eyes shut to prevent any of it from getting into his eyes. It's a good thing the soup has cooled down, or he would have had angry splotches of red on his face from being scalded by now. 

He looks up just in time to see the culprit laughing away as she takes the empty seat across him. The evening news is promptly forgotten as Jongdae opts to scowl at the woman instead. "I'm still convinced that you have a murder plot hidden up your sleeves, Amber Josephine Liu. What was that for?" 

Like him, Amber wasn't born in China; she hails from America, the purported Land of Dreams, where her parents had moved to from Taiwan. He still hasn't discovered why she had moved halfway across the globe to a place like this. Like him, her Mandarin is rather accented, though she blends in with the crowd much easier than Jongdae can ever hope to. She's one of his only few friends here in Beijing, apart from the workers in Rotten Love—one of the very few who didn't look down on him, and had accepted him into their fold with open arms. Jongdae thinks it might be due to her bubbly personality; it has always been easy for Amber to make friends. It's what makes her the most popular waitress in this particular restaurant after all. 

But of course, she can be quite the devil when bored. This is clearly one of those times, and Jongdae groans inwardly at the thought. Amber is _unstoppable_ when she's in the mood.

Amber sticks her tongue out at him, clearly unrepentant. " _You_ should stop zoning out while having your meal. I don't want to be held responsible if you happen to choke on your food and die here because you can't be bothered to pay attention to what you're putting into your mouth. It's going to give my boss's restaurant a terrible rep if that ever happens." 

Okay, fine. So maybe she has a point. It'll be a cold day in hell before Jongdae would admit it's his fault, though. "I'll still make sure to sue you for attempted manslaughter." 

"I'll make sure I'll properly _murder_ you, if you make a bigger mess of the table," Amber narrows her eyes, gesturing at the table. Jongdae looks down and promptly flushes red; he _did_ make a mess of the table, with oily splotches of his chicken soup splashed across its surface, accompanied by a strand of noodle which must have escaped from his chopsticks when Jongdae wasn't paying attention. Whoops. "Seriously Jongdae, how old are you again? Quit making my job even more difficult than it already is." 

"Sorry. It won't happen again," Jongdae grins, hoping he could buy his way out with his smile. It usually works, even with Amber. 

Thankfully, Jongdae hasn't lost his charm at all, when Amber's scowl mellows down into a barely repressed half-smile. "If I had a Yuan for every time you said that, I'd probably be a millionaire by now, yeah?" She teases, though a smirk promptly makes its presence known on her face when she chances a look at the clock hanging on the wall behind Jongdae. "Say, aren't you supposed to clock in for your shift at six? You have precisely fifteen minutes left."

Jongdae can practically feel the blood draining from his face, his peripheries turning ice cold at the reminder. " _Fuck_ —" he curses aloud, scrambling to gather the exact change for his food and leaving it on the table before he dashes out of the restaurant, nearly slamming his face into the door frame in the process. 

All he hears is Amber's hysterical laughter carrying down the street, as well as a loud, "Don't get yourself into trouble, Zhongda!" 

He merely waves a hand over his shoulder in response, focusing instead on hoping that his feet can carry him to the bar in record speed without tripping and landing on his face.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

"You're on my turf."

He straightens himself at the undertone of warning in those words, heaving a quiet, resigned sigh when his customer takes off in fear at the sight of the newcomer. He slowly turns around in his position, watching as his customer trips on his own foot and stumbles in the alleyway, barely preventing himself from bashing his head into the brick wall with an outstretched hand. The man bows fearfully at the newcomer, muttering words of apology, then disappears from the dark alleyway altogether. 

Not that he really cares, though. The weight of his customer's money is sitting reassuringly in his back pocket. It's not as though he's been conned out of his goods. And he makes his indifference known by crossing his arms in front of his chest, casually checking his trimmed nails. 

As expected, the newcomer snarls at him from the mouth of the alleyway. “Don’t be cocky with me now, fuckwit. Did you not hear what I said?” 

“I heard you loud and clear,” he drawls, gaze flickering up briefly at the man before he decides that examining the shape of his nails is infinitely more interesting.

Of course, he knows who this man is. Mao Jingren is his name, and he’s _notorious_ for laying claim on territories which are unmarked. These territories are usually tiny, nothing to shout about, but he’s excessively vocal about his ownership over them—even when no one else in the underworld recognises his influence. He’d be the first to run away in a fight, leaving his underlings to do his dirty job for him. He’s all bravado and no actual action to back up his claims that he’s a powerful man, that he’s widely acknowledged amongst the triads thriving in underground Beijing. Hardly someone who deserves the respect. 

It comes off as a bit of a surprise for him to find Mao Jingren without his underlings tonight, however. Perhaps someone finally returned his balls. 

“How many times must I warn you to get off my turf, then? Quit stealing my customers!” Mao Jingren says again, taking another step into the alley. 

He rolls his eyes, even if the alleyway is much too dark for Mao Jingren to register his response. But he does move away from the brick wall with a kick, deciding to meet the man halfway. Manners. “I believe this is only the second time we’ve met. What is this _warning_ you’re talking about?” 

His words manages to exert the exact intended effect on Mao Jingren, who bristles and quickens his pace. He doesn't flinch even when Mao Jingren is practically breathing in his face, jabbing a stubby index finger against his chest. "You know very well you're not welcomed here, fuckwit. Now get out while I still have the patience to talk to you." 

"Or else?" He raises an eyebrow in challenge, knowing that Mao Jingren sprouts nothing but empty threats. 

He tries not to burst out laughing when Mao Jingren says, "Or else I'm going to kill you and make sure you'll never show your face in this area again." He _would_ have taken the man seriously, if he hadn't heard the tremble of uncertainty in his voice. Unfortunately for Mao Jingren, his infamy precedes him. 

"Are you sure you can do that?" He asks again, casually whipping out a knife from his pocket and aiming it over Mao Jingren's heart, putting just enough pressure on its hilt to alert Mao Jingren of its existence. It's not yet enough to pierce through skin, but he likes the way Mao Jingren practically shrivels and pales when he sees the weapon. He scoffs at the man. "Why don't you show me that you're not all talk and no action?" 

The fear in Mao Jingren's voice turns into a full-bodied tremble when he increases the pressure on the knife, letting it pierce through fabric and skin, drawing minimal amounts of blood. "Wh—what are you trying to do?"

He smiles at Mao Jingren. "Do you think I'm clueless about the rules of the underworld? It's the survival of the fittest. To kill, or be killed." His words come out as a lazy drawl, and he takes yet another step closer to the trembling man before him. One more step, and he'd be driving the tip of the knife right through Mao Jingren's heart. "Didn't you say this was your turf? Why don't you fight for it, then? I haven't got all day." 

As expected, Mao Jingren raises his hand in a placating gesture. He wants to laugh. Trust Mao Jingren to come lay claim on his supposed turf _alone_ and weaponless. Sometimes he wonders if the man is really a leader of a small gang as he claims to be. He certainly doesn’t have the brains to lead one. “Look— we can talk this out. There’s no need to resort to violence—”

No violence? He’s not taking any of this shit. He completely ignores Mao Jingren’s nonsensical rambling, and decides to do a short little countdown instead. “Three.” 

He didn’t think it was possible for Mao Jingren to turn even paler than he already was. In the dim moonlight, though, he can see the way Mao Jingren’s lips turn paper white, and how beads of cold sweat start rolling down the sides of his face. “Come on—”

“Two.” He rolls his shoulders in warning, telling Mao Jingren he isn’t here to play games. 

Mao Jingren positively looks as though he's about to wet himself at this point of time, mouth trembling as he tries to find the words. "D-Don't kill me! I'll —I'll do anything you want! _Please_ —"

It's probably as close to a plead as he's going to get from Mao Jingren, and he smirks at the man, though the tip of his knife remains pressed against the bare flesh of Mao Jingren's chest. "Anything?" 

"Anything! Just don't kill me!" Mao Jingren is quick to promise. If there wasn't a knife being pointed at his chest and barring any sudden movements on his part, he probably would be kneeling on the filthy ground by now to plead for mercy. 

“Then do me a favour and get the fuck out of my sight. Let everyone know that this territory belongs to Xiumin from now. If I ever see you again—” He drags the knife cleanly across Mao Jingren’s chest, leaving a long, thin trail of blood trickling down from the fresh wound. “—make no mistake that I _will_ kill you. Do you understand me?” 

The way a pitiful whimper escapes Mao Jingren's lips and the fervent nodding that follows is pathetic. "I will! I'll let everyone know you're the true owner of this area! I promise to never set foot upon this place again!" 

Satisfied with Mao Jingren's words—though Xiumin doesn't put his full trust in them, knowing that it's all too easy for him to give empty promises in order to save his own hide—he withdraws his knife and taps the flat of it against Mao Jingren's cheek. The man flinches the moment the cold metal touches his skin, but he's much too afraid to make any other noise of surprise. "Good," Xiumin coos, "now scram."

There's something satisfying about watching Mao Jingren run away with his metaphorical tail between his legs, stumbling in his haste to get away from Xiumin, but he doesn't dwell upon it for long. Instead, Xiumin pockets his knife, making sure to properly conceal it from view, and checks his phone for the time. 

Perfect. Just in time to catch a performance.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

It turns out that the attractive man's appearance at Rotten Love wasn't a one-off thing. Jongdae is secretly pleased to discover that fact several nights after the first time he'd seen the man, and his presence has been a constant ever since.

This night is no different, even if the man walks into the bar slightly later than he usually does, about three songs into Jongdae's usual ten-song set. It certainly makes up for the stress Jongdae had experienced prior to his shift, where he was nearly late for work _again_ —no thanks to Amber who'd nearly made him choke to death on a mouthful of noodles. It would have been an extremely embarrassing way to die, and Jongdae shudders when he imagines how the headlines would sound. The Chinese media aren't particularly kind with their words; he can practically hear their mocking tune in his ears, though he quickly filters them out and focuses on his song again. 

He's not the only one who had observed the man's constant presence at Rotten Love, though. Even _Liyin_ , who spends most of her time hidden backstage, had taken notice of him, even commenting that the booth at the back of the bar seems to be his favourite spot to watch the stage from. Jongdae thinks that the man's predilection for the booth rather than being seated in front of the small stage is what makes him stand out from the rest of the patrons who always watches his sets, though he's curious about the reason behind the man's odd preference. He knows that the view of the small stage would be partially obscured if one were to be seated at the booth, because he's tested it out before. At first, he thought that the man was only interested in his voice, but the more Jongdae observes the man out of the corner of his eyes while performing, the more he realises that the man would never fail to have his sights set on Jongdae, following his every action as he enjoys the music.

The attention is flattering, if not a little flustering. His gaze _sears_. 

Jongdae has never spoken to the man per se, and his apparent shyness quickly became the source of his colleagues' constant teasing. It's not as though Jongdae doesn't _want_ to talk to him though; he does, but the man has a habit of disappearing from Rotten Love the moment Jongdae's set is done. He really isn't sure if he's reading too much into the man's intentions, or if the man is _truly_ interested in him, but Jongdae will never know unless he strikes up a conversation with him.

The opportunity presents itself that same evening. Jongdae is pleasantly surprised when he comes out onto floor after freshening up, only to find that the man is still seated at his booth, sipping on his usual favourite, and he approaches the bar with wide eyes.

"I'm not seeing things, am I?" He whispers urgently at Henry the bartender, subtly pointing in the man's direction. "A little too much smoke in my head maybe?" 

Henry makes an exaggerated show of glancing in the man's direction, then bursts out laughing—loud enough to attract everyone's attention. Jongdae quickly averts his gaze from the attractive-looking man when he turns to look at them, feeling his cheeks burn from embarrassment, and tries to climb over the bar counter in order to wrap his fingers around Henry's neck. He's never felt more tempted to bury himself six feet under, though he needs to strangle Henry to death before he can rest in peace. 

"Shut the _fuck_ up, Henry!" Jongdae hisses at him, as he continues to struggle with the stupid distance between him and Henry. 

"Oh man—" Henry wheezes as he sticks himself to the display cabinet behind him, still laughing breathlessly and wiping away the tears in his eyes, seemingly oblivious to the threat on his life or the death glare Jongdae's casting in his direction. "—you're really one of a kind. Why don't you just walk right up to him and say 'hi' already? It's not that hard." 

It wouldn't have been hard, if Henry hadn't gone through the extra length of embarrassing the hell out of Jongdae in public. "Easy for you to say," Jongdae sniffs, deciding to give up. He takes a seat at the barstool and cups his face with his hands, making full display of his petulance at Henry. He can still feel the man's intense gaze on him, and his skin burns. He opts to watch Henry concoct something instead, though he's surprised when Henry pours the concoction into a glass and slides it towards Jongdae. 

"Holy Smokes," Henry says, when Jongdae casts a questioning glance at the orangey liquid in front of him. It oddly reminds him of tea, though he's more than certain it's alcoholic, considering that it’s coming from Henry who barely provides anyone with non-alcoholic stuff. It takes some time for Jongdae to realise it's the name of the cocktail, and Henry actually rolls his eyes at Jongdae for being slow on the uptake. "You look like you'll need some liquid courage tonight. Go on and knock yourself out." 

Even though Jongdae isn't much of a fan of using liquid courage to get things done, he figures that a little alcohol wouldn't hurt. He does, after all, have a pretty decent tolerance level. A glass of cocktail wouldn't floor him so soon, and he can be sure to loosen up just enough to get the conversation going—if the man is at all interested, that is. 

"Here goes nothing," he mumbles to himself, and downs the contents of the glass in one large gulp. The speed at which he'd drained the alcoholic drink gets him a little light-headed, but the feeling passes soon enough, and leaves behind a pleasant buzz in him as he gets out of his seat and walks towards the booth where the man is still seated at. 

The man's gaze remains trained upon Jongdae all this while, and a smile slowly spreads across his youthful face when he realises Jongdae is headed towards him. The alcohol in Jongdae's system is making him feel bold, and he slides right onto the seat across the man with a wide grin, making sure to let the collar of his leather jacket slide off his shoulder a little to reveal a slither of skin. He's not oblivious to the way the man's eyes flickers towards Jongdae's exposed neck, before he looks at Jongdae in the eye once again. 

"Hello there, do you mind if I joined you?" Jongdae asks, slipping into the Mandarin language easily, extending a hand across the table for the man to shake. "I'm Jin Zhongda, by the way."

"You're more than welcomed to sit here. You're the star of the night, after all," the man responds with an affable smile, taking Jongdae's hand in his. The man's hand is rather calloused, but the warmth radiating from his palm and the slight pressure he's exerting on Jongdae's hand is more than enough to make him melt a little into his seat. Several heartbeats later, though, Jongdae realises with a start that the man had just spoken to him in _Korean_ , of all languages, and he straightens with a start. 

"How did you—"

"I'd be a terrible person if I couldn't recognise a fellow countryman," he chuckles, then follows it up with a teasing wink. "My name is Kim Minseok, by the way. It's nice to finally be acquainted with you." 

If Jongdae hadn't already been floored by the man's good looks, he'd be positively whipped by Minseok's manners by now. Fate is a funny thing. "I apologise; I didn't realise you were Korean, too." 

Minseok shrugs, unaffected. "You have to be careful with your words around these parts. Can never be sure who's out to maul you the moment they find out you're not from China and all, right? With the nonsense of us seemingly stealing their jobs and all. I get it."

Jongdae actually laughs, despite the gravity of the situation—there _have_ been reports of his countrymen being assaulted by the Chinese people at their workplace, and it's escalating in trend in light of the worsening economy. They're not all that safe any more, especially when there seems to be an anti-Korean sentiment going around in the grassroots. Jongdae can only try to hide his nationality for as long as he possibly can. Liyin is godsend, in that sense. 

"Call me Jongdae, then," he quips, chewing on his bottom lip before leaning against the backrest. He watches the column of Minseok's throat work at the sight, and feels pleased with himself. He hasn't lost his touch, it seems. "So, what's the occasion tonight? You don't usually stay this long after my set's done." 

For once, Minseok flushes pink at being caught red-handed. It's satisfying. "You noticed?"

"Of course," Jongdae grins. "It's not that difficult to pick up a familiar face in the crowd, especially one who's always hiding in this particular booth. Are you attracted to darkness or something?" 

It doesn’t take long for Minseok to catch up on the teasing game, and he leans forward to whisper conspiratorially, even if no one else can eavesdrop on their conversation, with how loud the music actually is. “How’d you know? Have you been stalking me all these while?” 

It startles another laugh out of Jongdae. “I’m pretty sure _you’re_ the one stalking me instead, stranger.” 

Their banter gets the conversation going after that, though Henry contributes by serving two glasses of Long Island Iced Tea somewhere in between. _They’re on the house_ , he winked when Minseok had informed him goodnaturedly that they hadn’t ordered the pair of drinks, and Jongdae decides to teach Henry a little lesson by deliberately tripping him when Henry heads back towards the bar after setting down their drinks on the table. Henry flips him off over his shoulder, but leaves them relatively undisturbed for the rest of the night, which Jongdae greatly appreciates. 

What surprises Jongdae even more, though, is the fact that Minseok had acted respectfully throughout the night, keeping his hands to himself and never touching Jongdae in a lewd manner—the same which, unfortunately, cannot be said about a large majority of the patrons at Rotten Love whom Jongdae had the displeasure of interacting with. He'd throw an appreciative glance at Jongdae once or twice, but it's only because Jongdae _wants_ him to, by tugging at the collar of his own shirt and deliberately stretching his neck to reveal a good expanse of his skin. He did it for the sake of testing Minseok's interest, though; he didn't want to come off as assuming, and it would be embarrassing if he misjudged Minseok's possible sexual orientation by letting his attraction to the man cloud his head. 

By the time the bar is about to close for the night, Jongdae discovers that Minseok is involved in business (though he hasn’t asked its specifics), is about two years older than Jongdae is, stays about three blocks away in the opposite direction from Jongdae’s dingy apartment, and has been living in China for half a decade, just like him. He also ends the evening with Minseok’s number saved in his phone and vice versa, with a promise to grab dinner and drinks away from Rotten Love sometime next week, per chance that their schedules are both empty for the evening.

Jongdae thinks he might’ve just met the most perfect man in his life. Not even Henry nor Liyin’s merciless teasing which comes after Minseok has left the bar can bring him down from cloud nine.


	4. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: MENTIONS OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE AND PHYSICAL ABUSE.**
> 
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>  
> 
> Sorry for the late update, but I've been busy with real life stuff as of late. Also, as a disclaimer, the Junsu in this fic is *not* JYJ's Junsu, despite the similar names.

 

Unlike a large majority of the Beijing crowd, Monday blues is a concept that is nonexistent for Jongdae. 

It probably has a lot to do with the fact that the Rotten Love is closed on the first day of the week, a semblance of humanity shown by grouchy ol' Lin Zhenghe who is surprisingly fine with letting his workers have the day off, instead of having them suffer from the temper of the grumpy after-work crowd. Or so Liyin says, trying to appeal to her co-workers and convince them that Zhenghe isn't such a terrible man after all. No one's buying it, though; they all know how he is. Jongdae's convinced that Zhenghe just wants to get away from the insanity of his charges—more specifically, Jongdae's mischief—that's all. 

He isn't complaining, though. A day off in a week is always appreciated, even if it _is_ on an odd day where everyone else is supposed to be at work. At least his vocal cords can get a decent rest. The change in seasons has always been particularly hard on his throat, and he can't afford taking his time off shifts to recuperate at home. It's difficult, when the only other singer at the bar left close to a year ago to pursue his dreams to be a full-fledged artist. Zhenghe had never made the effort to search for another singer to fill in that empty spot; something about it being too pricey to hire someone new, and Jongdae alone would do the job. It's also another reason why he hates Zhenghe's guts, even if Jongdae loves to sing. 

In a sense, Zhang Yixing has always been a good friend to Jongdae, in addition to sharing the burden of performing daily at the Rotten Love. 

There's a contented smile on Jongdae's lips as he walks past a music store, and coincidentally sees his old friend's face on the television screen, belting out his newest single. A group of teenage girls are crowded before it, cooing and sighing whenever he sings a particularly sweet line off his song. Trust Yixing to be able to melt a girl's heart with little effort. 

Jongdae’s happy for him, but he’s also jealous of Yixing—not that he’s going to admit it, ever. Yixing has the heart of an angel, and Jongdae doesn’t want him to feel bad for Jongdae’s lack of luck with regards to the entertainment scene. Yixing would probably beat himself up even if it isn't his fault to begin with. His selflessness is one of the reasons behind Jongdae's fondness for him—and his eventual crush on Yixing, but Yixing doesn't have to know that. Jongdae has befriended Yixing long enough to know that he doesn't swing in the same way as Jongdae does. He's met Yixing's girlfriend before, and Jongdae has long conceded that they look perfect together. He's grateful enough that Yixing's making the effort to keep in touch with him despite his busy schedules. 

The slow transition of summer into autumn proves itself to be erratic once again, when light rain begins to fall upon Beijing out of the blue. He's not even in the busier part of the city, but hundreds of umbrellas immediately go up around him, painting the late afternoon cityscape with a myriad of colours. Even more colourful words make their way out of foul mouths, cursing the humidity and talking about spoilt plans. It takes every effort for Jongdae to not snicker at their choice of words, for fear of offending someone—it's awfully easy to do that, it seems, and he'd rather not end up ticking off an irascible office-goer on a manic Monday. 

Shaking his head in mild amusement, Jongdae lets his own umbrella unfold, adding a splotch of black-and-grey to the sea of umbrellas on the sidewalk. It's nice to be able to take his time for once, walking slowly towards his next destination while everyone else around him hurries to theirs. Quite a few shoulders and elbows have bumped into him—some rather painfully, if Jongdae might add—though close to none have stopped to apologise. It's a norm in the city, where manners have gone to hell, but still Jongdae reminds himself to remain patient. Getting worked up over such trivial matters may get him into trouble, and he'd rather not show up at his Monday date's place with visible bruises. 

As if reading his thoughts, his phone rings at that particular moment. Jongdae's smile grows even wider when he sees the name of the caller on the screen, and he quickly swipes right to answer it. "Hello?" 

"Jongdae!" Liyin's cheerful voice carries over the line, and he can vaguely hear the clanging of pots and pans in the background. It suddenly disappears, though, and Jongdae guesses she might have moved to the living room in order to talk to Jongdae. "You're coming over today, aren't you?"

"Yeah, unless I'm not welcomed there today," Jongdae says in perfect Chinese, laughing. Visiting Liyin's place is a weekly Monday ritual which has been in place ever since Jongdae had set foot in Beijing. It's the only time he could truly call Beijing his second home, with the taste of Liyin's wonderful cooking on his tongue and the familiarity surrounding him. He can't fathom why Liyin would assume otherwise. "I'm on my way, actually. Only several blocks away. Do you need me to get anything else for the table?" 

Jongdae can almost hear Liyin ticking off her mental list when he's answered with a brief pause, before Liyin says, "Don't be silly; you're always welcomed here. And no, it's fine. I just need you at the dinner table to finish all the food for me, that's all." 

"Consider that done," Jongdae grins, even if Liyin can't see him. On the other side of the line, he can hear the front door opening and closing, before a man's voice calls out for Liyin. Junsu. Liyin distractedly answers her boyfriend, who must be kissing her neck at this particular moment, because there's a soft sigh escaping her lips. Jongdae flushes a little, feeling as though he's intruding on a personal moment. "I'll be there in half an hour, then. See you later, Liyin _jie_ ," he says hurriedly, cutting the call before Liyin can even respond to him. 

Jongdae shakes his head again as he pockets his phone, wondering if he should take a longer detour. If Junsu's in the mood, he’s probably going to sweet talk Liyin into letting him bed her, and it’s going to be a while before the coast would be clear enough for Jongdae to set foot in Liyin’s house without him chancing upon them during an inappropriate moment. 

Jongdae clears his throat in embarrassment when he recalls the time he had walked in on Liyin sucking Junsu off on the sofa, and quickly wills the image away. It’s one of the downfalls of having the keys and free access to Liyin’s home, and Jongdae has walked away countless times the moment he hears the telltale sounds of sex filtering past the front door—Junsu is horribly _loud_ —after shooting Liyin a quick message, lying to her that something else had cropped up and apologising to her for not being able to make it. Jongdae has long since learnt to call her up before paying her a visit, even though Liyin has insisted time and again that he didn’t have to. 

It doesn't even seem as though Junsu has learned his lesson, either. It's a lost cause. 

Sighing, Jongdae shoves his free hand into the pocket of his shorts, humming to a quiet tune as he tries to locate the store which sells Liyin’s favourite roasted duck. This is going to take a while.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

It’s half past seven when Jongdae finally arrives at Liyin's apartment complex, with a box of freshly roasted duck in hand. The rain, blissfully light for early autumn, has long since stopped, and Jongdae is more than thankful that he didn't end up drenched _again_. He hates falling sick at this time of the year, because the weather won't be warm enough for him to recuperate fast; it's a huge bother, as far as Jongdae is concerned. 

Security is rather lax in the area, and he doesn't even have to show his identification documents to get past the guard at the main gate—not that the guard is even awake to monitor the visitors to the apartment complex, anyway. There have been instances of Jongdae crossing paths with shady-looking individuals at Liyin's apartment complex, and he has lost count of the amount of times Liyin had talked to him about recent break-ins around the block. Jongdae has tried time and again to persuade Liyin into moving to a safer neighbourhood, but Liyin proves to be extremely stubborn in that aspect. 

_This place holds lots of memories to me_ , she's told him once, and Jongdae knew better than to pester her on the subject again. This is the first house Liyin had bought with her own savings, after all. While it's not brand new, nor is the compound remotely clean, at least it's still a property to call her own. Jongdae respects that. 

Jongdae covers the last of the distance between the corridor and the front door of Liyin's unit on tipped toes, not wanting to alert anyone else of his presence. The walls of the apartment complex are so awfully thin they might as well be nonexistent, and Jongdae has probably heard half of the domestic disputes going on behind closed doors on Liyin's floor. There’s also this creepy man who always spies out of his window facing the corridor whenever he hears someone approaching; he’s leered at Jongdae enough for the warning bells in his head to ring, revealing yellow, rotten teeth as he tries to undress Jongdae with his eyes. 

Jongdae has learned to steer clear of that unit whenever he pays Liyin a visit, and he's forced to vary his visiting times to not build up a routine. He's successful, for the most part. 

Liyin's apartment is silent when Jongdae arrives at her doorstep, and he quietly slots the key in, calling out for her as he enters the house. "Liyin _jie_? I'm here! Is the coast clear?" He asks, _just in case_. It may be a rare occasion when Junsu decides to be quiet and actually has the decency to use the bedroom instead of the living room—because Jongdae has had an unfortunate experience with that, too. 

Thankfully, Liyin greets him with a stable voice from the kitchen, albeit a little muffled. "Finally! I've been waiting all evening for you! Just take a seat at the table, I'll have the food out soon." 

Something doesn't seem _right_ , though, and Jongdae's eyebrows are knitted as he tries to figure out what exactly is making him feel this way. He replays Liyin's words in his mind as he helps set the cutleries on the table, and it's on the third repeat before he finally realises what's wrong. 

It's the way Liyin had spoken her words, almost as though she's forcing herself to sound happy. If anything, Jongdae is probably the only one who has seen every spectrum of Liyin's emotions, even if it has only been five years since they've really known each other. It's one of the perks of being step-siblings; Liyin places her complete trust in Jongdae to not betray her, and Jongdae feels the same way too. It gives both of them the upper hand, when it comes to deciphering each other's hidden emotions, and it's almost impossible for them to hide how they truly feel deep within from each other. 

Liyin has probably forgotten about it, which brings Jongdae to another conclusion—she must be incredibly distracted to let the matter slip from her mind.

Jongdae doesn't call her out on it at once, though. Instead, he takes his usual seat, hands folded neatly on the table as he waits for Liyin to serve that evening's dinner. He _would_ help her out in the kitchen, if only she'd allow him—Liyin has never failed to chase Jongdae out of the kitchen whenever he tries to lend her a helping hand, telling him that she can handle it herself. She had even locked him out of the kitchen once, because Jongdae had been too stubborn to actually listen to her. 

Liyin comes out of the kitchen soon enough, bringing with her the wonderful aroma of home-cooked food. It takes one whiff for Jongdae to know that she had prepared his favourite Sichuan hot and sour soup and _mapo doufu_ that evening, and his mouth immediately waters at the mere thought of their taste. 

He's distracted from his hunger and the tantalising aroma of the food on the table, though, when he watches Liyin's actions closely and realises she had refused to raise her head. In fact, Liyin's long curtain of hair is falling over her face, concealing her expressions from sight. 

At once, Jongdae is suspicious. Liyin _never_ lets her hair down when she's busy preparing food in the kitchen, not even after Junsu's untimely visits. _It's unhygienic to prepare food without tying your hair back_ , Liyin had told him once, and she had always stuck steadfastly to her own principles. It doesn't make sense that she would deviate from her norm today, unless—

He's jolted out of his thoughts when Liyin places two bowls of rice on the table just then, the ceramic clattering against its wooden surface in a jarring manner. "Let's eat; the dishes have been prepared for quite some time, and it's going cold," she says quietly when Jongdae thanks her for the meal, but even then, Liyin doesn't exactly meet Jongdae's curious gaze, merely glancing briefly at him before keeping her eyes on the table again. Her hair is _still_ covering part of her face, and she doesn't pull it back even when it's clearly making it difficult for her to put food in her mouth without first getting it into her hair. 

In fact, Liyin is so troubled by her own thoughts that she doesn't even notice the extra dish sitting on the table right in front of her. She would usually scold him for spending money unnecessarily, even when she had specifically told him not to bring something extra to dinner. Today, however, Liyin remains pensive as she continues to deliver the thinly sliced duck meat into her mouth. She doesn’t take the other dishes or consume her rice, either, and instantly Jongdae knows that something is very, very wrong. 

It’s almost as though the usually bubbly Zhang Liyin had been replaced by an empty, soulless vessel shaped after her. 

Jongdae continues to chew on his food once, twice, thrice, before resolutely setting his bowl down on the lacquered tabletop, his chopsticks following with a loud clatter. Liyin jolts at the sound, her own chopsticks nearly slipping out of her grip. 

“Liyin _jie_ , is something the matter? You’re incredibly distracted today,” Jongdae points out, fixing his gaze on her. Her image now is such a far cry from the cheerful voice he’d heard over the phone more than an hour ago, and Jongdae wonders if it has anything to do with Junsu’s presence in the house earlier. 

No—Jongdae is _sure_ that Liyin’s odd mood was a product of Junsu’s visit. He just doesn’t know what had transpired between the couple. 

As expected, Liyin shakes her head in dismissal. “It’s nothing, Jongdae. Don’t worry about it. You should eat before the food gets cold.” 

Jongdae pushes his bowl of rice away from him at her answer, firmly telling her that he’s not going to eat until he gets to the bottom of the matter. It’s not as though he has the appetite to finish his food, when Liyin isn’t being herself at all. He’s worried sick about her, and feels that as her stepbrother, he has the responsibility of cheering her up, when her boyfriend clearly isn’t going to do the job. It's unfortunate that Junsu isn't dependable enough for things like these, but who was Jongdae to say anything about Liyin's relationship matters, when Liyin herself doesn't want to talk about it? 

"Liyin _jie_ , you know you can always trust me with your problems, and no—" he raised a finger when it seemed as though she was going to argue with him over it, something about her being the older sibling and hence her natural responsibility of caring for him instead of the other way around. "—I told you it's not a bother. What happened?" 

That's when he realises belatedly that Liyin is wearing a long-sleeved blouse, in the middle of a _heated_ room, when she'd usually just walk around in a sleeveless top. Even if Liyin is trying to be discreet, Jongdae's sharp eyes still manage to catch the irregular edges of a nasty bruise imprinted on her right wrist when she tugs on her sleeve, and his anger flares.

"What's that on your wrist?" Jongdae asks, trying his best not to lunge at Liyin in order to inspect the injury himself. He doesn't want to hurt Liyin further, when it's clear that she's shaken from whatever happened between her and Junsu before Jongdae had arrived. Suddenly, Jongdae regrets having taken that detour. Maybe if he'd arrived on time, he might have been able to prevent Junsu from hurting her. 

"It's nothing," Liyin says again, and Jongdae growls at her. 

"It's not _nothing_ , Liyin," Jongdae insists, dropping the honorific. "Just show me. Please." 

At the sound of Jongdae's pleading intonation, the fight seems to have left Liyin altogether. She heaves a weary sigh, averting her gaze before drawing the sleeve of her blouse up. Jongdae's suspicions were confirmed the moment he laid his eyes on Liyin's wrist, and he snarls in anger at the sight of it. The bruise is nasty enough against her pale skin, taking the shape of fingers, and it’s definitely imprinted there in a fit of rage, not something a person would leave behind during sex. Unable to hold himself back, Jongdae reaches forward while Liyin is still distracted from the mortification of having Jongdae see the bruise on her wrist, hooking her long locks behind her ear. 

And Jongdae’s vision goes red in anger when he’s greeted by yet another scarlet imprint made across Liyin’s cheek. That mark is still fresh, the purplish hues just about to set in, but it makes Jongdae’s stomach churn sickeningly all the same. 

“How _dare_ he lay a hand on you?!” Jongdae seethes, gripping the edge of the dining table so hard that his knuckles are turning white. All her life, Liyin has been both a witness and a victim of abuse—it's why their mother had left her father at all, after suffering from years of violence while married to the man who was supposed to protect her. It's not fair that she should subject herself to the same kind of treatment from a man who proclaims to love her. 

"It was my fault," Liyin says quietly, bringing down her hair to hide the red hand print from view. "I told him I couldn't have sex with him because you were coming over, and he just—"

Jongdae really wants to scream, wants to tell Liyin that it's not her fault—it's _never_ her fault—that she has all the right in the world to refuse intimacy if she's not up to it. It doesn't seem as though she'd listen to him now, however, not when she appears devastated for triggering Junsu's anger.

He _knew_ he shouldn't have trusted in Junsu to take care of Liyin. Junsu has always appeared shady in Jongdae's eyes, and he should have listened to his instincts more. Liyin deserves better than this. 

"He didn't have to hit you, what the fuck," Jongdae hisses through clenched teeth, his appetite for dinner all but gone at this point of time. "I'm going to give him a piece of my mind—"

The moment Jongdae pushes himself out of his seat, though, Liyin's fingers are already firmly wrapped around his wrist, preventing him from walking away from the table. Jongdae whips back to look at her in frustration, and Liyin winces when he glares at her, but her grip on his forearm doesn't slacken in the slightest. 

"Liyin _jie_ —" he starts, but Liyin is already cutting him off.

"Leave it, Jongdae. Please," Liyin says quietly, switching to Korean to get her point across. She meets his gaze with a wry smile for a brief moment before her eyes are fixed upon the table once again. Jongdae _hates_ how broken she sounds, and he can't even begin imagining how betrayed she must feel deep within by Junsu's harsh actions. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me. So _please_." 

If there's one thing Jongdae hates about himself, it's the fact that he can't say 'no' to Liyin's requests. He loves his stepsister to bits, for all the kindness he's been shown over the years, and he would do anything in his capacity to make her happy. The least he can do right now, however, is to not upset her further. 

It's with such thoughts that Jongdae finds himself taking a seat once again, pulling his bowl of rice back towards him. They eat in silence for the rest of the evening—Liyin still doesn't comment about the sudden appearance of the roasted duck; probably doesn't notice it, either—though Jongdae's mind is still in a deep turmoil.

He _will_ have to talk to Junsu one of these days.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

Tuesday midnight is where Xiumin finds himself in a secluded alleyway in the outskirts of Beijing, with another group of thugs confronting him right after he completes another transaction of cannabis with a regular customer of his. 

Of course, he'd be stupid if he hadn't expected this to happen. The underworld of Beijing is crawling with triad members and drug pedlars like himself, almost to the point of over-saturation. It's only normal for the larger groups to want to weed out the smaller businesses, in order to gain control over a particular area and maximise their profits. It won't do for solo acts to steal their customers right under their noses, selling products much, much lower than the market price, even if the market price has been ridiculously inflated. 

Monopolising businesses is one of the sure way to propel their groups up the ranks of the underworld, to gain nationwide recognition and fear—even if that reputation is a double-edged sword. 

It doesn't stop them from aspiring to be at the top of the food chain, though. Xiumin is the same. Baby steps. 

He can't even find it in himself to be surprised when he recognises the leader of the small group to be Mao Jingren. While Xiumin had warned off Mao Jingren on their previous meeting, it didn't necessarily mean that the man would back off this easily. Pride is a dangerous trait to possess, if they didn't know how to handle it well. The humiliation Xiumin had dealt to Mao Jingren is a hard pill to swallow, evidently, but it's also clear that no one else knew what had transpired between them. Mao Jingren didn't have his underlings with him, after all. It's all too easy to pretend with the lack of a witness. 

Whatever. Xiumin is more than ready to play along, even if it _is_ stupid of Mao Jingren to conveniently forget how Xiumin had nearly stuck a dagger right through his chest previously. 

"Didn't I tell ya to get off my turf, fuckwit? You're denser than a fucking rock." Mao Jingren roars from the mouth of the alley, earning peals of laughter from his underlings. Mao Jingren puffs up his chest in turn. False bravado. 

Xiumin's steps are lazy as he approaches the group, swinging his keys around his index finger. "Really?" He drawls, sizing up Mao Jingren's mini party of men. "I didn't know your word was law. It's a free country." 

Mao Jingren had three other men with him that evening; two of them didn't look the least bit threatening, what with the sloppy way they're carrying themselves. The last one of his three underlings, however, seemed dangerous. His sharp eyes are pinning Xiumin down, quietly evaluating the situation they're in. He's at least a head taller than the rest of them, and built with a physique which suggested that he was probably an expert in martial arts. If there's anyone Xiumin has to watch out for, it's him. 

Xiumin likes that threatening light in the man's eyes. 

It's then that Xiumin finds out Mao Jingren's underlings may not be willingly serving for him, when one of them muffles a snicker at Xiumin's words. If it were any other fiercely loyal subordinate, they would have charged forward and pinned Xiumin against the moss-covered brick walls by now, beating Xiumin up for the obvious insult aimed at their leader. 

Even better.

"Do you mean to say you're trying to get involved in the underworld without first learning our rules?" Mao Jingren says haughtily, right after elbowing that particular subordinate in the gut. "I know who you are. I know you're not Chinese."

Xiumin shrugs in lieu of riling Mao Jingren up, knowing he's all bark and no bite. "So?" he sniffs; he doesn't even know why Mao Jingren had to bring in the issue of his nationality, when the underworld is ruled by those with the _ability_ to do so. "I do know the rules of the underworld. If you want your turf to be left alone, then you should fight for it," he says calmly, before raising a challenging brow at Mao Jingren. "Or are you trying to say you don't have the guts to do it yourself?" 

It's the last straw for Mao Jingren, it seems, because he snarls and all but lunges at Xiumin for it. "Say that again," he counters, cracking his knuckles in preparation to fight. 

Xiumin laughs and looks at him dead in the eye. "I said: fight me yourself if you want to keep me off your turf."

Everything happens all too quickly once Xiumin issues his challenge. Mao Jingren charges at Xiumin with his fist raised after telling his subordinates to back off, telling them that this is his fight. Xiumin thinks it's all too stupid for him to fight with his bare hands, when he doesn't even know if Xiumin's concealing a weapon under his jacket, but he honours the fight regardless. Xiumin's the first to land a hit on Mao Jingren, knocking the man backwards with an aptly aimed punch right in his nose. The man is probably completely enraged by now, and he even ignores the way his nose is leaking blood like a tap, opting to charge at Xiumin again.

At least, Mao Jingren seems to have gained some intelligence this time, whipping out a pocket knife and trying to stab Xiumin with it. Xiumin's reflexes are faster though, and the knife only manages to lightly graze against the skin of his forearm, drawing a small amount of blood. The pain isn't intense enough to make Xiumin stop, though, and he kicks Mao Jingren square in the chest when the man gets much too close to him. 

There's a sickening crack of ribs being fracture when Xiumin's boots land on the man's chest, and Mao Jingren ends up kneeling on the floor, coughing and wheezing away as he tries to catch his breath. His fractured bones might have puncture a lung, because he's soon expelling blood between his lips, complexion growing paler by the minute. Mao Jingren's pocket knife is far out of his reach, having fallen out of his grip when Xiumin had kicked him earlier. 

Knowing that he's won the fight—Mao Jingren doesn't look like he's in any condition to be on his feet—Xiumin smirks as he walks towards the man, patting him on the cheek with the back of his hand. "Give it up, and I might actually spare your life." 

Mao Jingren tries to spit a mouthful of blood in his face in defiance, but Xiumin sidesteps it almost effortlessly. It makes Xiumin tut in faux pity; Mao Jingren's energy reserves is almost used up by now, evidenced by the way he easily falls face-first to the ground when Xiumin applies a slight pressure onto the top of his spine. He ends up lying on the ground limply, his arms failing him when he tries to push himself up. 

Seeing that there isn't a point in dealing the finishing blow—Mao Jingren will drown in his own blood soon enough—Xiumin rises to his full height and brushes the dust off his pants, wiping the blood on the back of his arm onto his black shirt. He was right about Mao Jingren's subordinates not giving a shit about their leader; they're still standing there with their hands in their pockets, emotionless as they watch Mao Jingren draw in his final few breaths on the ground. It doesn't seem as though they're going to exact revenge on their boss's behalf, either.

Good; Xiumin doesn't like it when things get complicated. Enough blood has been spilt for a night. 

Just as Xiumin is about to walk away from the alley—Mao Jingren now lay dead on the ground—he's stopped from progressing further when one of the man's subordinates call for him. He turns in his position, glancing at them with curiosity on his expressions, though he's rather surprised when the most threatening-looking man of the lot takes a step forward. His stance is relaxed, however, telling Xiumin that he's not looking for a fight. 

Xiumin quietly heaves a sigh of relief. 

"If you know the rules of the underworld—" the man starts, voice deep as he gestures at Mao Jingren's lifeless body on the ground. "—then you should also know what comes after that." 

"There are plenty of possibilities," Xiumin says, smiling. "Which one are you after? Revenge? Or pledge of loyalty?" 

Unexpectedly, the man bows respectfully at Xiumin. His other two friends scramble to follow his lead, rushing forth and standing abreast with him. "My name is Huang Zitao, and I am at your service, boss." 

Later, in the dead of the night, Xiumin finally comes to terms with the impact of Huang Zitao's words, how he'd called Xiumin _boss_. It gives him an euphoria that only a position of power could offer, and the realisation that he could begin building an empire of his own now, in a world which had snatched away the things he treasured the most years ago. Zitao had promised him the information of their old clientèle, and contacts of other suppliers—things which Xiumin would definitely require in the long run, if he ever wanted to escape the life of being a lowly drug pedlar on the streets of Beijing.

It's a cause for celebration, definitely, and there isn't an ounce of hesitation as he types up a message, sending it to a newly-acquired phone number. The possibilities are limitless.

_Are you free this Friday evening? I'd like to invite you out for dinner._

The reply is instantaneous, almost as though the other man had been lying in bed all night, waiting for Xiumin to text. _I'd love to. Just let me know the details in the morning._

It's the first night Xiumin has slept in peace in a long while.


	5. four

Liyin's mood doesn't exactly get any better over the next couple of days, unlike the other times when Junsu had upset her. It's not as though Jongdae expects her to, of course; not after what Junsu had done to Liyin. There have been times where Liyin was pissed at Junsu for various reasons—all justifiable, because Liyin isn't one to get mad over silly matters—but she would always be appeased when Junsu sends bouquets of her favourite flowers to the bar, and would return to her usual upbeat self in less than a day. 

Of course, Jongdae disapproves of her tendency to forgive Junsu this easily, but he has no say in their relationship, nor does he know the specifics behind their arguments and constant clash in opinions. Liyin is extremely private in that sense, keeping all her worries to herself. Not even Jongdae can wheedle that sort of information out of her, for how close they are as half-siblings. 

It isn't as though Junsu hasn't been keeping to his tradition of sending flowers and chocolates to the bar ever since their fight on Monday. He _has_ been trying a lot harder to win over Liyin's forgiveness, even getting someone to deliver a box of jewellery to the dressing room while Liyin was busy doing Jongdae's makeup—it's a first, considering how stingy Junsu can be on most times. That happens on the third evening after Junsu had first laid his filthy hand on Liyin’s face. 

Jongdae was fully prepared to give her a piece of his mind if she ever accepted his apology without putting up more of a resistance, but apparently he didn't have to resort to such actions. Liyin merely acknowledged the delivery man briefly, telling him to leave the box on the dressing table before returning her attention to Jongdae. The box, which contained a gold chain as Jongdae had discovered later, ended up in the hands of the lady who helps clean up the Rotten Love, with Liyin telling her to sell it off if she doesn’t intend to wear it. The lady _has_ been struggling with financial issues for a while now, and they were all trying to help her in more ways than one. The gold chain must cost at least several thousand _yuan_ , and it should be enough to last the lady for the next two months or so, with her frugal way of life. 

It's not the first instance he's seen Liyin giving away or throwing out Junsu's gifts this week, however. The first time she had accepted a bouquet of her favourite flowers on Tuesday, Jongdae had nearly flipped at her, though he held it in because his set was up. It ended up in the trash can, a sight which Jongdae had stumbled upon while leaving work that evening, noticing the purple wrapper sticking out of the dumpster located in the back alley. The next few days were the same, and Jongdae was finally able to rest easy when it became obvious that she was absolutely livid at Junsu. If Liyin had texted Junsu back to accept his apology for his trashy actions, the gifts wouldn’t have continued coming to the Rotten Love. 

Jongdae knew Junsu that much. He isn’t someone who’d pamper Liyin all the time—he’d only do it once in a blue moon, in fact, and it’s usually when he angers Liyin. He wouldn't stop sending gifts until Liyin tells him he's forgiven. 

What grates on Jongdae's nerves, though, is the fact that Junsu has never showed up at the Rotten Love to apologise to Liyin in person. Not in the past, and certainly not now—not even once. At times like these, Jongdae really wonders if Junsu is sincerely repentant over his actions, or if he's merely trying to buy his way back into Liyin's good graces with material goods. The idea doesn't sit well with him. 

Sometimes, though, Junsu is completely capable of pulling off the element of surprise. Thursday is one such instance, when Jongdae heads back to his dressing room to change after completing his set for the evening, and walks right into the scene of Kim Junsu angrily pounding his fists against the dressing room door. It takes Jongdae a bit of time to process Junsu's words, his ears still ringing from the sound of the drums and the remnants of the adrenaline rush from performing, but once he finally manages to translate them back into his native language, Jongdae sees red. 

_Get the fuck out here, I know you’re in there; get out here before I break this door down and drag you out by force_ , Junsu is yelling, not caring that he’s essentially in a public space, that anyone can walk in on him shouting at his girlfriend in such an uncouth manner. Jongdae honestly doesn't know why he ever trusted Junsu to take good care of Liyin, or wanted them to get married as soon as possible so that Liyin could keep her happiness. It's clear to him now, though, that he doesn't want Junsu anywhere near his half-sister any longer. 

It takes all of Jongdae’s self-control to not throw a punch across Junsu’s sorry excuse for a face as he approaches the other man, who doesn’t seem to have noticed Jongdae’s presence until the younger man is yanking him away from the door by the scruff of his shirt. Jongdae shoots him a look of warning as he slots himself between Junsu and the door, thereby preventing Junsu from attempting to tear the structure down with his bare hands. 

“Get away from Liyin _noona_ ,” Jongdae snarls when Junsu takes another step forward after fixing his clothes, switching back to their native language. He'd hate for the others to pick up on their conversation if they happen to wander into Jongdae and Junsu's path. Liyin doesn't need to have her dirty laundry aired in public; it's simply not fair for her. “You’re not welcomed here.”

“Or what?” Junsu sneers, still refusing to back down. “Are you going to fight me? Call the police on my ass? Funny you should talk, when you’re the one who caused this rift in the first place.”

Up close, Jongdae can smell the offensive mixture of alcohol and nicotine in Junsu’s stale breath, and it makes him want to gag at the stench. He’s nowhere near sober, Jongdae realises with a start. It makes Junsu all that more dangerous right now, with his track record of erratic behaviour over the years, carefully hidden away from Liyin’s eyes. 

Then Jongdae frowns at what Junsu had said. _Of course_ Junsu would shift the blame onto him, instead of viewing his own actions as problematic. This isn’t the first time Liyin had snubbed him in favour of Jongdae, but this is where Junsu is sorely mistaken. Liyin has never had a younger sibling to care for until Jongdae came into her life, and she has always gushed about it ever since, delighted that she has a half-brother to dote on. Junsu’s jealousy is misplaced, especially when Liyin has devoted most of her adult life to being with him and trying to keep the relationship alive. In comparison, Junsu doesn’t seem to have placed much effort in keeping Liyin happy. If Jongdae could put a word in, he’d even say that Junsu has been taking Liyin for granted from the day she had agreed to be his girlfriend. 

Love is blind indeed. 

"Is that what you really think?" Jongdae raises a brow in challenge. "Liyin _noona_ has always put you above her best interests, and this is how you treat her? By hitting her just because she didn't want to give in to your selfish desires?" 

Jongdae's words must have triggered Junsu's guilt, for his anger flares, and Jongdae finds Junsu breathing right down on him, fingers fisted in the collar of Jongdae's mesh shirt. The material rips a little when Junsu shakes him. "You know _nothing_ —!"

"I know you're trash for laying your hand on Liyin _noona_ ," Jongdae cuts him off, watching as Junsu's irises dilate in fury. Jongdae's really pushing it this time, which really says something about his intense dislike for the man in front of him right now. Jongdae usually just gets out of Junsu's way, never initiating casual conversation after the first few times Junsu had ignored him in favour of nursing a glass of beer. 

It's really the last straw, though, when Junsu raises his fist and punches the door right next to Jongdae's face—clearly a warning for Jongdae to watch his tongue _or else_. It leaves a dent in the shoddy wooden structure, something which Zhenghe will surely lose his shit over. And he would get Jongdae to pay for it because it's indirectly his fault, anyway. Fuck. "Watch your tongue, you fucker—" 

Unfortunately for Junsu (or fortunately for Jongdae), Liyin chooses that particular moment to open the door, and Jongdae can feel the anger radiating off her even if he can't see her face. Junsu immediately drops his arm which was already raised in preparation to land a proper punch on Jongdae, and he lets the younger man go, plastering an innocent, pleading smile on his face. Jongdae gags at the sight. 

"Liyin, baby, it's not what you think it is—" Junsu starts, but he's silenced when Liyin raises a hand to stop him. Jongdae quickly moves out of the way, slipping past Liyin into the dressing room. It's not his position to stand in the way, and he doubts Junsu would hit Liyin with another pair of eyes watching everything unfold. His temper may be volatile, his actions even more brash, but Junsu isn’t completely stupid. 

"Don't _baby_ me, Junsu. I know what you did. I heard every word you said," she tells him, fuming. "I can't believe you tried to hurt my _brother_. You know he’s the only family member I have.” 

Liyin very rarely ever gets angry; the only other time Jongdae has seen her like this was when her father had shamelessly knocked on her door and demanded that she paid for his living expenses. She had rightfully refused, even getting the security guard of her apartment complex—as useless as they may be, most of the time—to escort the man away, if only because her father had wanted nothing to do with her in the first place, and had abandoned her as a child when her mother had walked out of his life because of his love of gambling and his long list of extramarital affairs. Jongdae is touched to discover that Liyin sees him in such an important light, that she's even willing to throw away her relationship to defend him. It also makes him feel a little guilty, because she deserves all the happiness in the world. 

Then again, Liyin probably isn’t going to find that happiness if she ever decides to stay with Junsu. His actions over the last couple of days have proven as much. 

"Baby—" Junsu tries, but Liyin isn't having any of it. 

She points towards the back door with a firm finger, eyeing Junsu sternly. "Get out. I don’t want to see you ever again." 

When Junsu attempts to protest against her words again, Liyin merely steels herself and repeats, "Get _out_."

The last of the fight finally bleeds out of Junsu, and his shoulders sag in defeat as he raises his arms in a placating gesture. At least he's smart enough to not push Liyin's buttons any further, because it won't benefit him in any way if he continues to be argumentative. "Fine," he sighs, "I'll just—I'll leave." 

And he does, at long last, footsteps heavy as he marches himself towards the back door. It doesn't stop Junsu from throwing several more glances over his shoulder at Liyin, though. Liyin doesn't spare him another moment of her attention, folding her arms in front of her chest and looking in the opposite direction, still fuming at Junsu's blatant disrespect for the people she actually cared about. Nevertheless, Jongdae knows Junsu is nowhere near remorseful, when he flips Jongdae the finger the moment their eyes meet across the hallway. There's an undertone of warning burning in Junsu's eyes, one that's silently telling Jongdae to watch out once he steps out of the establishment. 

It's a promise for revenge, and while Jongdae is a bit worried of the repercussions that might follow, he doesn't let it show. There isn't a need to provide Junsu with the satisfaction of knowing that Jongdae's intimidated by him. 

Liyin's form only slumps once the back door closes shut, leaving them behind in complete silence, and she has to physically lean against the frame of the dressing room's entrance to support herself. Jongdae swallows hard at the sight; he can't even begin fathoming what's going through his half-sister's mind at this particular moment.

"Liyin _jie_ ," he starts quietly, but even then, Liyin still jumps at the sound of his voice. When she whirls around to look at him, Jongdae sees the franticness in her eyes, the fear on her expressions. Deep inside, they both know Junsu isn't going to let this matter slide, and he's going to find a way to approach Liyin again somehow. He doesn't take rejection very easily. 

Pushing his own fears aside, though, Jongdae smiles encouragingly at her. Someone has to be brave on Liyin's behalf. "Are you okay?" 

Nevertheless, what Liyin says next is completely unexpected. "Did I not tell you to stay out of this?" She asks, and Jongdae flinches at her accusatory tone. He knows she doesn't mean it, though, when she closes the distance between them and pulls Jongdae into a tight embrace, burying her face in Jongdae's shoulder. Tears soon stain the fabric of his jacket, but there's nothing else Jongdae can do except to stand there awkwardly, letting Liyin sort out her inner turmoil. "I don't know what I'd do if you'd gotten hurt because of me, Jongdae. Please don't act on your own again. Please." 

And Jongdae finds his heart breaking all over again for Liyin, whispering a quiet, "I'm sorry, Liyin _jie_. I'm sorry," as she cries her heart out.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

He's been waiting for Friday to come all week long, excitement thrumming through his veins at the mere thought of the date he was going to have with Jongdae—Kim Jongdae, the lovely singer from the Rotten Love, who had stolen Minseok's heart from the very first note of his song. That very first night was a chance encounter, as small bars aren't exactly part of Minseok's usual hangouts. Call him mushy, but Minseok wonders if it's fate, after all. 

Minseok is definitely not disappointed when Jongdae shows up for their date that evening, meeting Minseok outside a Korean barbecue shop tucked away in a quieter alley in the outskirts of Beijing. Minseok was right; Jongdae still looks absolutely stunning even if he's not wearing his flashy stage clothes, his face bare of any makeup. In fact, Jongdae looks even better like this, when he's comfortable in his own skin, dressed in a simple t-shirt and a pair of dark-coloured jeans which hugs his frame nicely. 

Minseok tries really, really hard not to stare at his date for far too long, however. He knows it's rude, and he really doesn't want to scare Jongdae off before he can even ascertain if there's a possibility of them developing this _thing_ between them beyond simple friendship. 

In the beginning, Minseok thinks they might have a real chance of growing closer. It's surprisingly easy to talk to Jongdae, and Minseok hasn't experienced such a feeling in a very long while. Jongdae is all smiles as he pacifies Minseok’s curiosity, answering the questions Minseok had put forth to the best of his ability. Minseok finds out that singing has been a lifelong passion of Jongdae’s, and it’s considered his special talent, for he has never attended any singing lessons in his life. He can’t say he’s not impressed by the revelation; it probably isn’t easy to have such amazing control over his own voice, but Jongdae has managed to do it so effortlessly. Minseok is also a little envious of Jongdae; he remembers his own love for singing in the past, though it has been eroded over time, owing to the circumstances surrounding his life.

Minseok can’t afford to indulge himself in such whimsical desires. Not now. Not any longer. Jongdae doesn't have to know any of it for now, and he seems to buy Minseok's claims that he's a businessman specialising in pharmaceutical products easily enough, and he sounds fascinated by the revelation. It's not exactly that far from the truth, apart from the fact that his business may err on the side of being illegal. Minseok will cross that bridge when he comes to it—if _they_ ever come to it. 

Nevertheless, Minseok can't shake off the feeling that there's something not quite right in the way Jongdae's smiling at him that evening. It's different from the usual smiles and cheeky grins Minseok is used to seeing on Jongdae's face whenever he's performing at the Rotten Love; there's a hint of sadness and worry to it tonight, and Minseok has the burning desire to know why. It's not his place to question Jongdae, though, so he keeps his lips sealed, and tries to subtly cheer Jongdae up by telling him funny anecdotes gathered throughout the week. It works, for the most part, but that sad edge to Jongdae's smile keeps creeping back into place once the conversation ceases at their table. 

He wonders if Jongdae knows that Minseok has noticed it. 

Minseok quirks an eyebrow at Jongdae as he takes a sip of water towards the end of their dinner, when the man falls suspiciously silent after answering a very brief call just moments ago. Jongdae is poking absently at the last bits of food on his plate, eyes unfocused as he stares at the table. It's then that Minseok decides to stop keeping a tight lid on his raging curiosity, because he doesn't like seeing Jongdae upset. Cheesy as it might sound, Jongdae's smiles are literal small bursts of sunshine to Minseok, and while he knows that it's impossible to have sunny weather all year round, Minseok is still determined to keep the sunshine on Jongdae's face. It's a good look on him. 

"Is there something wrong?" Minseok asks, once the silence gets a little too much to bear. He's not used to Jongdae being this quiet; it makes him anxious, and Minseok doesn't even know _why_. When it doesn't seem as though Jongdae had heard him, Minseok reaches across the table and touches him briefly on the back of his hand.

It's only then that Jongdae's attention returns to present times, and there's a pretty flush colouring his cheeks owing to the embarrassment. “Sorry, I must have zoned out. Could you repeat that again?” 

“It’s fine,” Minseok reassures him with a smile, and Jongdae replies with a tight one of his own. “Is something the matter, though? You’ve been really... distracted all night.” 

“I—” Jongdae starts, then clams his mouth shut once again. His eyebrows are knitted in a conflicted frown, as if trying to decide if it’s wise for him to share his worries with Minseok. Minseok understands his sentiments though; they’re only out on their very first date, as two individuals who are trying to get to know each other better, no less. It would probably take a huge leap of faith for Jongdae to confide something so personal in Minseok, but it doesn't stop Minseok from hoping. 

Moments later, Minseok's wish is fulfilled, though in an extremely unpredictable manner. 

"How do you deal with an abusive relationship, where the victim still has feelings for their abuser?" Jongdae asks quietly, not wanting the customers around them to overhear their conversation. Minseok's heart promptly drops to the pit of the stomach, as a million and one thoughts race through his mind. Was Jongdae talking about himself? 

"Are you—" 

Minseok doesn't even get to finish his question. Jongdae's catlike eyes promptly widen when he realises Minseok had misunderstood his query, and he shakes his hands wildly, cutting Minseok off. "No no no, it's not me. I'm not attached—" Jongdae practically splutters, growing a deeper shade of red. Despite the situation, Minseok still think Jongdae looks cute. "—it's just. It's someone I care about a lot, and I don't know how to advice her to stop thinking about it." 

"Is that what you were worrying about the entire evening?" Minseok quirks an eyebrow at him, and when Jongdae nods sheepishly in affirmation, Minseok merely flashes a reassuring smile at him. "I'm not great at life advices, but I suppose you should give her some time to sort out her own thoughts. If it was someone she cared about a great deal, it won't be easy for her to just forget about them. I’m sure she’d appreciate your concern, though, if she ever learns of it.”

Jongdae mulls over Minseok's words for a brief moment, before shrugging in defeat. "I guess you're right. She's a lot stronger than she looks, and it’s not my place to force her to forget about her relationship,” he says, finally smiling, and thanks Minseok for the advice. 

They talk over several more cans of beer after Jongdae’s done with his food, and Minseok is glad to see that Jongdae is a little more cheerful now, with his concerns out of the way. The sunshine smile and cheeky jabs return almost effortlessly, and Minseok thinks he might have fallen just that little bit more in love with Jongdae and his upbeat personality, almost as though nothing in this world could bring him down. 

Minseok offers to foot the bill at the end of the night, which Jongdae accepts with a blush and promises he’ll get the bill on their next outing. Minseok’s happy enough that Jongdae thinks he’s worth another date, and doesn't put up any resistance when Jongdae insists on it.

There's still a smile plastered on Minseok's lips, as he watches the taxi, which Jongdae had climbed into moments earlier, drive away and melt into the blur of Beijing's streets. Jongdae had taken him by surprise and had pressed a quick peck to his cheek before he'd left, and laughed when he caught the shell-shocked expression on Minseok's face. He hadn't expected that from Jongdae at all, though Minseok's not complaining. The press of his lips against Minseok's skin is still warm, and Minseok almost breaks into a silly grin—

—until someone walks right up to him and says, "Are you sure you should be doing this, boss? He's a layperson." 

The smile immediately falls from his face, and Minseok frowns as he turns to regard the newcomer. The man is now leaning against the exterior of the barbecue shop, one foot braced against its bricked walls. "Have you been following me around, Zitao?" 

Ever since gaining several new followers under his wing—followers who used to belong to Mao Jingren, until Minseok had eliminated him from the competition to gain hold of territories around the city—at the start of the week, Minseok has been enjoying a sharp increase in personal income. His new followers have been providing him with information on their old clientèle, who are more than happy to switch over to do their business with Minseok. Something about Minseok being a lot less overbearing and a lot easier to talk to, compared to Mao Jingren who would always demand them to do things his way. It's not necessarily a bad thing, though a certain Huang Zitao seems to have taken to shadowing Minseok's whereabouts over the last couple of days. 

_I was Mao Jingren's bodyguard_ , Zitao had told him as-a-matter-of-factly when Minseok had asked. He considers it a surprising revelation, because if Zitao was supposed to be Mao Jingren's bodyguard, then why hadn't he taken Mao Jingren's place the night his old boss had died? 

Minseok, of course, made his curiosity known. Zitao merely smiled and told him that Mao Jingren didn't deserve to be protected; didn't deserve the title of a boss. He never did respect the man, and his death effectively freed Zitao from a life of servitude to someone as useless as Mao Jingren was. 

It made Minseok question his loyalty, too, though Zitao had promised Minseok that he would remain faithful, so as long Minseok became a boss he could truly respect. Minseok took it in full stride; he knows very well that unchanging loyalty is an extremely rare trait where the underworld is concerned, especially when the person in question is of a lower hierarchy with nothing to tie them down to the group. 

Betrayal happens when another group offers greater benefits. It is to be expected, but so is death, once the betrayal is discovered. It’s a deadly game which everyone is willing to gamble their lives with, for the sake of money. Money which they may not make in this lifetime of theirs, if they were holding down any other regular job. It's enticing enough for them to screw everything else. 

Zitao is still wearing that calm, mysterious smile as he lights a cigarette and sticks it between his nicotine-stained lips, taking a long drag and exhaling into the cool night air. "It's part of my job description to keep an eye on you, boss. Can't have you dying on me now, can I?"

The corner of Minseok's mouth twitches a little. So he hadn't been hallucinating when he thought he'd seen Zitao passing by the front of the store earlier. "Unlike your previous boss, I am fully capable of taking care of my own ass,” he says flatly. It earns a short laugh from Zitao. 

“I know. Just in case,” Zitao shrugs, before stubbing out his cigarette on the ground. 

Minseok rolls his eyes at Zitao, but he feels mostly fond of the younger man. He’s proved himself to be extremely useful, and extremely resourceful over the last couple of days. That’s when an idea strikes him, and Minseok quirks an eyebrow at Zitao. “Say, do you think you can find someone for me? A certain Kim Junsu?” 

Jongdae had mentioned the name in passing, when Minseok had asked him about the person who was abusing his sister. The alcohol in his system had made his tongue extremely loose; Jongdae probably doesn’t even realise he’d blurted it out. But Minseok is still determined to teach that man a lesson; no one hits a woman and gets away with it unscathed. The idea of it just sickens him, even if he might not know Jongdae’s half-sister in person. He’s sure she’s an amazing person, though, for Jongdae to speak so highly of her even in his drunken state. 

As always, there are no questions asked as Zitao pushes himself away from the wall, slipping his hands into the pocket of his jeans. 

“Give me a day or two,” he promises, shrugging. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” 

Minseok _knows_ he will keep it.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

The cold wind pricking at his face sobers him up too quickly, too soon, and Jongdae smothers a muffled groan into his hands. Leaving the window of a moving taxi down on a chilly autumn night is clearly not Jongdae's brightest idea to date, especially when he's trying to forget his troubles, but it's much too late for regrets now. He's still some ways away from home, and with the late Friday evening traffic, he doubts he'll be back any time soon.

He really should have taken the subway, instead of letting Minseok goad him into hiring a taxi— _for your own safety_ , he said. Jongdae should have downed several more bottles of beer to drown out his sorrows, too, but Minseok would have stopped him regardless.

Sighing, Jongdae rolls up the window and presses his forehead against the cool glass, eyes watching unblinkingly at the scenery moving past him outside the vehicle. Now that most of the alcohol has left his system and he no longer feels intoxicated, the events from earlier this evening flood his mind once again. His fingers tighten around his phone which is sitting on his lap, and he's promptly reminded of the text message Minseok had sent him ten minutes ago, telling him good night—left unanswered, because Jongdae can't bring himself to do it. Not when he'd lied to Minseok, right in his face.

 _It's not a complete lie_ , his logical mind tells him, and perhaps it's true. Jongdae hadn't meant to ask Minseok for a solution to Liyin's relationship woes, when Minseok had questioned Jongdae about his distractedness. He didn't have much of a choice, when the next most viable option is to disclose the contents of his phone call with his mother. 

Of course, Jongdae had never expected for his mother to ring him up in the middle of his date with Minseok, nor for her to drop a huge bomb on him after not contacting him for _years_ on end. Deep inside, Jongdae knows his mother never forgave him for abandoning his home in Seoul in favour of uprooting to Beijing. She still doesn't know the reasons behind his drastic actions, either, but Jongdae is determined not to let her discover the truth. Still, Jongdae had hoped to reconcile with her eventually, and he'd asked Liyin to relay his phone number to their mother during one of their conversations. In case. 

At first, Jongdae had been delighted to see the words “mum” emblazoned on the screen of his phone, but that happiness quickly went downhill the moment he heard what his mother had to say. 

_Your father is seriously ill, and he needs a large sum of money for his treatment,_ his mother had sobbed and said nothing else. Jongdae remembers how the tips of his fingers promptly went cold, even with the radiating warmth of the barbecue restaurant behind him, even with Minseok's piercing gaze watching him, probably wondering who was important enough for Jongdae to answer the call during their date. 

His heart sank even deeper into the pit of his stomach when his mother had told him the estimated cost for his father’s treatment. He could only mumble a quiet, “I’ll find a way and let you know,” before cutting their conversation short. No _hello_ s, no _goodbye_ s, no warm exchanges of _I forgive you_ or _I love you_ s. All that’s left is a never ending stretch of numbness which settles itself in the tips of his fingers and at the ends of his toes, makes itself at home even when the feeling isn't welcomed at all. 

The dread caught up to him much, much later, when Jongdae had marched himself right back into the restaurant and proceeded to zone out of his date with Minseok. How was he supposed to come up with that sort of money, when he’s working on a meagre income earned from singing at the Rotten Love? There is no way he could ask Liyin for help—it would be unfair of him to place his burden on his half-sister, when she’s already worrying enough about the collapse of her long-term relationship. He couldn’t turn to Yixing, who is his closest friend in Beijing, either; they haven’t spoken to each other in _months_ , and it wouldn't be pleasant for Jongdae to ask for money on their very first conversation after so long. 

For a very brief moment, Jongdae had considered asking Minseok for help. He did, after all, tell Jongdae he’s a businessman, and Jongdae doesn’t doubt he earns a substantial amount of money to be able to fund his daily visits to the bar. But at the end of the day, Jongdae couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth to relay the request. Even if he does look smitten by Jongdae, Minseok doesn’t have the obligation to help him solve his family matters. It would be rude of Jongdae to request for such a huge sum of money from him, when they’ve barely known each other for more than a month. He doesn't want to be indebted to Minseok either, not when he isn't even sure if their relationship is going anywhere. 

In the end, Jongdae had to lie to Minseok, and hope that Minseok wouldn’t continue reading too much into things. It didn’t seem as though Minseok suspects anything else though, so at least Jongdae could relax a little. 

“It’s your stop,” the driver of the taxi suddenly says just then, pulling Jongdae out of his thoughts. The man is clearly annoyed, if the way he's glaring at Jongdae through his rearview mirror is any indication, and Jongdae mumbles a sheepish apology before quickly paying the exact amount of his fare and alights from the vehicle. It's quickly snapped up by another customer, who rudely pushes past Jongdae and climbs in before Jongdae even realises what's going on, but it's not as though the lack of manners is something new to him. It doesn't bother him as much now.

Now that he's finally left alone with his own thoughts, however, Jongdae is reminded of his previous dilemma as he trudges in the direction of his apartment complex. His phone is still held tightly in his sweaty palm, but it takes Jongdae five more steps before he's dialling a number on it. He hesitates for a short moment, wondering if he's making a big mistake. It _is_ , after all, the main reason why he'd moved away from Seoul in the first place.

In the end, he figures there's no quicker way to get the money he needs to fund his father's treatment, and hits the dial button before his hesitation can cause him to chicken out of it. It takes two short rings before the call goes through, and Jongdae takes a huge gulp of air to calm his nerves. 

Quietly, he says, "It's me." It's met with a harsh bark of laughter, but it's already much too late for regrets.


	6. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning:** physical violence, mentions of prostitution

 

Minseok is in the midst of finalising the details of yet another drug deal on the phone when someone walks into the room. 

Minseok had converted one of the abandoned factories downtown into his makeshift office, which offers enough cover for them, considering how isolated the area actually is. No one ever comes to these parts of the city, for reasons unknown; perhaps it simply isn’t profitable enough for anyone to develop the area, when they have to tear down the existing buildings first. There have been rumours going about that the area is haunted too, but Minseok has never been one to believe in the existence of spirits or ghosts. 

The covert renovation works is considered one of Minseok’s other investments, paid for using the leftover money from his inheritance and a small portion of his income obtained through his various drug deals. Once his clientele had expanded, it brought Minseok a greater greed to establish his name in the underworld—an effort hampered only because of his nationality. He refuses to let such a flimsy excuse to continue standing in the way any longer, however. At least things are looking up after the death of Mao Jingren, and his reputation has gained a huge boost. 

Those who have the guts to take another person’s life are always revered in the underworld. It’s never easy to kill, much less live with the knowledge that they'd killed with their own hands.

The figure, who is dressed from head to toe in black, ignores the questioning look Minseok shoots at him and sits himself in the chair across Minseok's desk uninvited, before sliding a file across the wooden tabletop. He crosses his legs and leans back into his seat with a smug smile, making himself right at home while he waits for Minseok to finish his call. 

If it's any other person, Minseok would have put the call on hold and kicked the man out of the room. He absolutely _hates_ it when someone infringes on his privacy, especially when he's trying to talk business. Huang Zitao should count his lucky stars, for how fond Minseok is of him. It's only because Zitao is incredibly efficient at his work, and nothing else. Then again, Zitao probably already knows it, from the way Minseok had allowed him to get off the hook for a large number of things which would otherwise have ticked Minseok off. 

Manipulative bastard. 

Out of the corner of Minseok's eyes, he could see how the man is playing with his piercings. He has a hoop earring with a cross dangling from it on his right earlobe, and a threader earring on his left, which he is currently fooling with, along with several more studs along the shell of his left ear. He tries not to let the jangling of metal distract him, and Minseok is successful for the most part. The last bit of him itches to flip through the file that’s staring mockingly up from the table at him, but he knows he shouldn’t start reading through it while he’s still on the phone. He’d _definitely_ not pay attention then. 

The call finally ends five minutes later, after Minseok’s constant and repeated reassurance that everything will be fine, that their deal will not be discovered by the police force. He heaves a sigh of relief once the line goes dead, leaning into his chair for a short rest before he acknowledges Zitao's presence. 

“Tough deal?” Zitao muses almost immediately, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Minseok needs that bit of peace and quiet. He’s still fiddling around with his piercing, left leg crossed over his right as he swings his chair from side to side, his weight making the chair creak at its joints.

“No,” Minseok scrunches his nose as he recalls the details of his phone call. “Just a worrywart who has never gotten himself in such a deal before.”

“Ah,” Zitao exclaims in understanding. They’ve all been there before. Having to deal with first-time customers are part and parcel of their life. Some would gain the courage to break the law, others won’t. For every deal lost to their customers’ uncertainties, they’d gain several more in return. They’re not losing anything in the long run, anyway. It’s not a huge concern, as long as those who chicken out of the deal don’t go rattling about their underground businesses to the police. 

Of course, Minseok never forgets to ensure that his clients completely understand the repercussions of such actions. He has the means to silence them for good, too, and he’s not afraid of making that fact known to those who are dealing with him. No one has ever dared to betray him so far, and he hopes to keep it that way. 

“So, what do you have for me?” Minseok asks, finally pulling the file on the table towards him. 

“Information on a certain Kim Junsu. You said you wanted it quick,” Zitao mentions, shrugging offhandedly. “Good thing it’s not too difficult to dig him up.”

Minseok snorts. Of course not. Judging from the bits and pieces of information Minseok was able to collate from Jongdae’s drunken rants, Kim Junsu was definitely a part of the Beijing underworld. There are only a handful of Koreans around, one of them being Minseok himself, though the latter isn’t considered a widely known piece of information. He'd like to keep it a secret for now, merely allowing those who are closest to him in on the information. He trusts them not to spread it to the rest of the underworld just yet.

Zitao continues to ramble on as Minseok begins devouring the contents of the file. It’s a surprising twist, really, because Zitao doesn’t come across as such a meticulous person. It almost makes Minseok feel as though he’s part of some crime movie shown on the silver screen, like a detective trying to track down a fugitive, and that thought is enough to make him snort again. The irony. 

“He’s in Choi Seunghyun’s gang?” His eyebrows shoot up the moment his brain processes the information. Minseok raises his head just in time to see Zitao nodding smugly at him, and a dull ache starts pounding at his skull. 

Choi Seunghyun is the leader of the largest Korean gang in Beijing, with a rather extensive network of allies scattered across the country. The man himself is ruthless, merciless, and is someone Minseok would rather not mess with, if he had the choice. Settling the score with one of his underlings could go two ways—either Seunghyun would turn a blind eye on the matter, or he’d interfere before Minseok could even begin teaching Kim Junsu a lesson he deserves. Minseok hopes for the former, though chances are slim. Brotherhood is a trait they’ve all sworn to keep for as long as they could. Judging by the information Zitao had managed to dig up, it seems as though Kim Junsu ranks pretty high up in the triad, too. 

“What’s wrong?” Zitao asks, still amused, still too smug for his own good. “Not gonna do anything about the guy?”

"Don't be ridiculous," Minseok scoffs, feeling affronted that Zitao would see him in such a light. "Track him down for me, and we’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

Zitao is already hopping off his seat in the very next moment, giving Minseok a two-finger salute which makes him roll his eyes at the younger man. “Consider that done.”

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

The stench of nicotine clings to the dingy curtains, made worse by the lack of ventilation in the air-conditioned room, and Jongdae scrunches his nose in distaste, trying not to choke on the stale air. The only form of distraction offered to him is his own heartbeat racing in his chest; his palms are sweaty enough for Jongdae to keep wiping them on the fabric of his skin-tight jeans. It’s not hygienic, Jongdae knows, but it’s better than wiping them on the sheets of the bed he’s currently sitting on. 

It’s been a while since Jongdae has done anything of the sort—not since he’d left Seoul five years ago, when he decided he wanted to carve a different life for himself—but the anxiety is still the same, the shame even more so. 

It isn't as though Jongdae has any other choice, however. There aren't any other jobs that pays as well as the one he's taking upon now, and certainly none that he could juggle along with his late evening shifts at the Rotten Love. While the working condition is certainly nowhere near ideal—undesirable, even—it offers the flexibility that Jongdae needs, and it provides Jongdae with the opportunity to set his own terms and conditions for each job. Jongdae convinces himself that he _needs_ to do this for the sake of his ailing father, for there isn’t anyone else who could help him otherwise. His mother wouldn’t have called Jongdae up if there was. 

The fact that he can’t tell anyone else about his second job can be easily ignored, if he tries hard enough to steer clear of the questions thrown at him, asking him the reasons behind his perpetual exhaustion as of late. Liyin has her suspicions, Jongdae knows; the way she looks at him sadly whenever he collapses on the sofa in his dressing room after his sets is telling. He can only be thankful that Liyin hasn't broached the subject yet—she respects his right to secrets, and wouldn't push him to talk until he's ready to discuss about the problems plaguing his life. 

Jongdae jumps in surprise when a large, warm, unfamiliar hand squeezes his shoulder just then, and he turns around just in time to watch the other man guffaw at his reaction. He must be in his late forties or early fifties at most, sideburn greying and going bald at the back of his head, and his yellow teeth appear even more disgusting under the pale orange illumination provided by two measly ceiling lights above them. The lights flicker from time to time, creating the perfect atmosphere for a murder film, but Jongdae tries not to let his imagination go too far. Liyin would kill him twice, if he ever makes the headlines for being found murdered in a questionable motel room without his clothes. 

Conclusions are much too easy to derive, when imagination runs wild. 

“A little jittery there, aren’t we?” The man asks, tracing his stubby fingers along the underside of Jongdae’s jaw before suddenly digging his nails into flesh. The sudden burst of pain pulls a hiss out of Jongdae, but just before the expletives fall from his lips, Jongdae reins himself in, reminding himself that this is part of his job. To keep quiet. To not fight back no matter how much his instincts tell him to. To play by his client’s wishes as long as they don’t overstep Jongdae’s boundaries. 

And this particular client just happens to have a predilection for causing pain. His excitement at Jongdae’s submission is clear by the way his pupils dilate, the way his cheeks turn a little more flushed despite the fact that the air conditioning is on full blast. 

“No marks,” Jongdae reminds the man quietly, not quite looking at him. “It’s part of the agreement.” He doesn’t think his client had read it at all, just like the rest before him. Of course, Jongdae has free reign to walk out of the room the moment they violate the conditions he’s stipulated, but it would also mean losing his pay for the day. The amount of zeroes on his paycheck with this man is enough to last him a week, even if his choice in hotels are less than generous or tasteful. Jongdae _has_ to persevere until the very end. 

“Right,” the man huffs, though his fingers only ease up imperceptibly. Nails are still digging into skin, glee and hunger and lust written all over his expression as he looks at Jongdae. “Anything else?” 

He’s impatient. His right hand, the one which isn’t holding Jongdae’s gaze up with fingers under his chin, is already busy undoing the buttons of Jongdae’s shirt. 

_Condoms_ is the last thing Jongdae manages to grit out, before he’s being pushed onto the questionable sheets, lips of another man bruising against his own and fingers digging into his scalp. 

He desperately hopes for this to be over soon.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

Digging up Kim Junsu’s background is the easy part. Tracking him down in busy, busy Beijing is a lot less so, especially when he's so elusive as of late. 

Minseok manages with Zitao's help, though, by the time the week draws to an end. It's a good thing he has a steadily growing group of men under his wing, mostly recruited by Zitao himself, and they comb through the city at an impressive speed, finally locating him near Haidian. It's a good thing Kim Junsu is alone; it allows Minseok to settle the score with the man himself, minus the complications of having to deal with the rest of Junsu's gang members. He has nothing against Choi Seunghyun's gang, no intentions of encroaching on his territory— _yet_ —and he'd really like to avoid direct confrontation with the leader until he has a more established group to lead. 

Rushing into a fight with the rest of Choi Seunghyun's triad when Minseok's own gang is still so terribly green equates to career suicide.

Kim Junsu is in the midst of lighting up a cigarette upon leaving through the backdoor of an obscure bar when Minseok finds him. He merely announces his presence by calling out Junsu's name, and by the time Junsu hears him and turns around, Minseok's clenched fist has connected with the side of his jaw. The impact sends Junsu reeling, barrelling into the side of a dumpster when he loses his balance. Even when his fist is throbbing from the dull ache, the loud thwack when Junsu slams head first into the metal dumpster is oddly satisfying. 

"What the fuck—?" Junsu manages to grit out, his speech completely slurred. It must be due to the amount of alcohol he has in his system; Minseok can smell the stench of cheap liquor when he gets close enough to twist his fingers into the front of Junsu's shirt. 

"How does it feel to be on the receiving end of someone else's fist?" Minseok asks, ignoring the way Junsu's currently thrashing about in his hold. He's so intoxicated that he can barely even stand without swaying, and needless to say, he's essentially harmless in Minseok's books. Minseok catches a glimpse of something crimson and slick on the corner of Junsu's mouth moments later, when the backdoor to the pub is thrown open for a brief second, allowing the light from the interior to flood out of the hallway and bleed into the night. Blood. 

The satisfaction only climbs. 

"Who the fuck are you? What did I even do to you?" Junsu says again, once he's steady enough to stand on his own feet. His eyes are still glossed over, though, and Minseok doubts Junsu will be able to recognise him in the dark. As it is, he can barely even remember his own name. 

"There's no need for introductions. You should know what you've done to your own girl," Minseok tells him, tapping Junsu mockingly on the cheek with more force than really necessary. It makes Junsu shake his head violently in order to get Minseok's hand off him, but it only serves to induce the extreme nausea which inevitably comes with a night of heavy drinking. 

Minseok manages to step away just in time to avoid getting sprayed by Junsu’s stomach contents. He wrinkles his nose at the foul smell, watching in disgust as Junsu continues to puke his guts out onto the gravel beneath his feet. He’s such a sad sight; Minseok can’t help but wonder what Jongdae’s sister had seen in him, but he’s in no place to judge. What Minseok _does_ know, though, is that he has to teach Kim Junsu a lesson on Jongdae’s behalf. Jongdae can’t risk punching Junsu in the face to dispel his anger, for fear of inciting his half-sister’s ire in return. From what Minseok had gathered through Jongdae’s drunken confessions, his sister didn’t want him to go anywhere near Kim Junsu, either. 

The frustration Jongdae had demonstrated while they were on their date was too much for Minseok to bear. The least Minseok could do was to teach Kim Junsu a painful lesson on Jongdae’s behalf. Junsu didn’t have to know that Jongdae and Minseok were acquainted, either. 

Another pair of shoes come to a complete stop next to Minseok while he was still preoccupied with watching Junsu’s pathetic state. He follows the length of its owner’s legs, only to discover that Zitao’s wearing the exact same expression as Minseok’s—one of absolute disgust. He makes sure to take another step back, probably not wanting Junsu’s stomach acid to dirty the shiny surface of his leather Guccis. 

“Do you need me to beat him up for you, boss?” Zitao asks, stuffing his heavily accessorised hands into the pockets of his slacks as he rocks on his heels. Minseok can’t fathom how uncomfortable it must be, wearing rings which outnumbered the number of fingers he had on his hands, but Zitao makes it look all so effortless. It must be because he had a pair of rather large hands; larger than Minseok’s, anyway. For someone who prowled the streets for customers looking for illegal goods, Zitao seems overdressed—and incredibly proud of it, too. 

“It’s fine. I’ll teach him a hefty lesson myself,” Minseok responds, ending the last syllable in a sing-song tune. Hardly the right intonation to be using in the current situation, when the sound of Junsu’s continuous retching is serving as a background melody to the noisy streets, but it’ll do. At least it masks Minseok’s level of anger from the outside world. 

Once Junsu is done throwing up the last of the alcohol in his stomach, he wipes his mouth on the fabric of his sleeve—Minseok grimaces in disgust, and Zitao sighs before turning away from the sight—before pulling himself to stand once again. “The fuck is your problem?” He snarls, still swaying from side to side. He could probably fall over the moment a strong gust of wind sweeps through the alley, and the mere thought of it makes Minseok want to laugh. He’d probably land face first in his own pile of vomit. Poetic justice. 

"I happened to have overheard from someone that you beat up your own girlfriend," Minseok tells him point-blank, reverting to their own language. The words taste acrid on his tongue. "I know you're part of a triad, but to lay a hand on your own girl just reflects badly on all of us."

"Ah, so you're Korean too. Why does it matter to you, what I did to my own woman?" Junsu sneers. “She’s _mine_ to own. She gave herself to me. I can do whatever the fuck I want to her.”

Something tells Minseok that he's nowhere near repentant for his actions, and it makes him sick. They may involved in illegal activities and even kill others for the sake of survival, but Minseok still believes they should retain at least a shred of dignity. Needless to say, even amongst the triad members, they’d look down upon those who treat their own women or lovers like trash. Junsu's lowly actions effectively eliminated the last bit of his worth as a human being. 

“Are you, or are you not going to apologise to your girlfriend?” Minseok asks again, a tone of finality in his words, but it falls on deaf ears. 

Junsu merely laughs harshly and spits out an acidic, “ _Fuck you_.” 

There are no further words of warning when Minseok drags Junsu forth by the collar of his shirt, immediately landing an uppercut on the underside of his jaw. A crack follows the impact, and Minseok relishes in the possibility that he had at least dislocated Junsu’s jaw, or if he was lucky enough, he might’ve even broken it. Whatever it is, with Junsu being unable to open his mouth, at least Minseok won't have to deal with his pathetic whining that is sure to come if he were able to talk. 

Minseok doesn’t pull his punches, even when it’s obvious Junsu can’t possibly win in this fight. It’s all horribly one-sided. Junsu tries hard to take aim at Minseok, though his attacks are completely off the mark from how intoxicated he actually is. Minseok, on the other hand, punches him twice across the face, probably knocking a tooth or two out of Junsu’s mouth, then knees him square in the abdomen. It makes Junsu fall on his own knees with a howl, dry heaving on the ground on all fours because there simply wasn't anything left in his stomach for him to empty. 

Junsu attempts to get back on his feet several times in the next couple of minutes with Minseok and Zitao watching his pathetic form from the sidelines, but he fails miserably when his arms keep giving way beneath his weight. In the end, he gives up completely and continues to lie prone on the ground, gravel digging into his face as he takes in deep, ragged breaths. 

Minseok clicks his tongue in repugnance at the sorry sight, before sauntering towards Junsu and squatting next to him. "Haven't been involved in a lot of fights, have you?" He asks, tapping Junsu mockingly on his cheek. Despite Junsu's laboured breaths, Minseok is certain he hasn't ruptured any of Junsu's internal organs from his kick. He'd gone easy on Junsu on the very last hit, knowing he shouldn't kill the man just yet. It would defeat the purpose of beating him up in order to teach him a lesson. 

"Who—who the fuck sent you?" Junsu chokes out, gritting his teeth as he tries to bear the pain. 

Minseok can only laugh. "Me? No one," he says, shrugging. "I told you, I overheard someone else's conversation and decided that you needed to be taught how to stay in line."

"You're _insane_ —" Junsu hisses again, trying to spit at Minseok, though as with his other hits, it lands way off mark. Minseok just stares at him in disdain, wishing he would stop trying. 

"I've been told that several times, yes," says Minseok ruefully, once he's certain Junsu won't be trying anything funny with him again. “Now be good and grovel for forgiveness from your girlfriend. If you don’t, I can’t promise that I won’t actually hurt you a lot worse than tonight the next time I see you. _Got it_?”

Of course, he doesn’t expect Junsu to give him any sort of reply, so he’s not surprised when Junsu merely turns his head away and decides to focus on making his breaths even instead. Satisfied with his silence, Minseok pulls himself to stand, dusting the lint off his pants before walking away. Zitao joins him shortly, once he throws another look of disgust at the man who’s still lying prone on the floor of the rat-infested alleyway. 

“Are you sure you should keep him alive, boss?” Zitao asks. Minseok’s not oblivious to the raging curiosity behind Zitao’s words, or the questions unasked. Perhaps he’s wondering about the reasons behind Minseok’s deliberate use of his native language while talking to Junsu, when it would certainly allow Junsu to easily find him, if he ever decides to exact his revenge on Minseok with his triad members’ help. There are only so many Koreans who are involved in the Chinese underworld, nowhere close to having to find a needle in a haystack. The reverse is true, however, if Minseok had spoken to him in Chinese instead. 

But it’s not in Minseok’s intention to hide. It’s the work of a coward, if he ever concealed his true identity from Kim Junsu. He’d like to see if Junsu would ever dare go to his boss for help, after having committed something so embarrassing. While the odds are against it at the moment, he wouldn’t be surprised if Junsu showed up at his doorstep with half his gang in tow. 

“It’s fine,” Minseok shrugs in the end, strolling down the main street with his hands in his pockets. At least his hands are clean this time, instead of the bloody affairs he would experience. It’s a refreshing change. “It’s meant to be a challenge for him to confront me when he’s in a less fucked up condition. I’ll deal with it when it happens.” 

“He won’t be alone the next time,” Zitao reminds him, though his words are tinged with amusement. Minseok has a feeling that Zitao is enjoying this a little too much, but it doesn’t matter. They all need something to spice up their lives, anyway. 

“I know,” Minseok confirms. “When that time comes, at least you’ll have something to do. Stretch your muscles a little.” 

His suspicions are affirmed at the gleeful way Zitao rubs his hands together. “Perfect.”

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

Weekends are always chaotic, when people from all walks of life would flock to bars and clubs to unwind after a long week at work. While Jongdae had gotten used to it before, it's beginning to take a huge toll on him lately, when he has to juggle between his singing stint at the bar and his new day job. It doesn’t help that his other job drains him physically, and it’s really by sheer willpower that Jongdae had managed to last for so long to begin with. 

Nevertheless, his weekend sets at the Rotten Love are also briefer, when most of their patrons prefer to engage in a lively conversation with the rest of their friends, comparing experiences and complaining about everything under the sun which had happened in the last week. They don’t seem to mind as much when Jongdae cuts his set short by several songs, though they still cheer and applaud him enthusiastically when Jongdae bids their customers a very good night. 

Usually, Jongdae would mingle amongst the tables after his stage, chatting with his fans who braved the late evening crowd to watch him perform, and have a drink or two with them. It's good business, Henry had told him once—Jongdae's fans would buy him drinks, and Jongdae didn't have to fork out anything at all, merely offering them his time and smiles and easy conversation, nothing else. Lately, however, they seem to have picked up on his perpetual exhaustion, and wouldn't pester him to join them as they had always done. They would still cheer him on, and would relay their hopes for him to return to his previous upbeat self soon enough before letting him go on his way. For that, Jongdae is thankful.

If there's another thing Jongdae is grateful for, it's for the time he gets to spend in Minseok's company. Even though it has been less than a couple of months since they had first met, Jongdae had gotten off on a pretty good footing with Minseok. It's unbelievably easy for him to forget his worries and enjoy his time with Minseok, even when they're talking about random topics which come to their minds. Minseok is ever so eager to provide answers to the silliest of questions, wearing a patient smile even as the night grows deep. 

He's extremely accommodating and understanding, too. Minseok has never uttered a single word of complaint whenever Jongdae would tell him he couldn't get any time off from work. Instead, he would show up at the Rotten Love every evening, just in time to watch Jongdae's set at the bar. Sometimes, he would walk into the bar halfway into Jongdae's performances with a look of regret for missing the first couple of songs, but Minseok would _definitely_ be there without fail. His dedication warms Jongdae's heart. Even the most hardcore of Jongdae's fans have missed several of his performances over the years due to their real life commitments, but Minseok doesn't seem to be getting tired of Jongdae's stages at all.

Jongdae feels guilty for having such thoughts, but he would sometimes wonder if Minseok really does pay attention to his performances at all, or if he’s just here to stare at Jongdae. Call him narcissistic, but Jongdae knows just how attractive he is when he’s on stage, overflowing with confidence in his own voice as he belts out notes in a range which many others could only dream of hitting. Many have told him as much, even Henry and Amber who are usually reluctant to rain their praises on Jongdae, because they’re simply embarrassed to do so and refuses to let Jongdae gloat at them for admitting it. 

Those doubts are put to rest, though, when Minseok starts analysing the lyrics once Jongdae comes to sit with him at Minseok’s regular booth. He’s as curious as Jongdae himself, always eager to learn more about Jongdae through the songs he’s written and dared to share with the world. It makes Jongdae realise that Minseok has been paying close attention to his songs, even memorising the tune from the sheer amount of times he’s heard them, and his cheeks flame up in embarrassment for ever having doubted Minseok at all. 

At the same time, it makes Jongdae fall for him that much harder. 

Clearly he could be read like an open book, when Henry abandons his station at the bar and slides into the booth to gossip with Jongdae the moment Minseok heads off to the washroom that evening. “Getting cosy there, aren’t we?” 

Jongdae can feel the heat rising all the way up to the tips of his ears at the question. “What are you talking about? Don’t suggest ridiculous things.”

Henry rolls his eyes at Jongdae, clearly not buying his words. “You’re expecting me to believe in you, when you’ve practically been undressing each other all night?” He scoffs, and Jongdae’s cheeks grow impossibly warm. Jongdae’s glad the club is much too noisy for anyone to overhear their conversation, because what the fuck. “Give me a more solid reason, Jongdae.” 

“I’m serious,” Jongdae retorts, voice strangled. “We’re _just_ friends.” 

That’s when Henry points in the direction of his own collarbone, all while casting suggestive looks at Jongdae’s. “Care to tell me what’s that on your shoulder?” 

Jongdae is utterly confused for a long moment, before the realisation dawns upon him that he’s dressed in a mesh shirt with a low neckline, and his left shoulder—the one which Henry is pointing at—is bared for the world to see. The pit of his stomach drops when he looks at himself through his phone’s front camera, only to spot a huge, unsightly bruise splayed across his skin. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he curses, his free hand flying up to shield the bruise from view. It must have been from the customer he’d entertained right before his shift, and Jongdae must have missed it while putting on his clothes because he was rushing to make it in time to clock in for work at the Rotten Love. 

That’s where the panic escalates. If someone who’s as unobservant as Henry noticed the hickey in the dim lighting of the bar, then Minseok, who is always extra attentive when it comes to Jongdae, would definitely have taken note of it. _Fuck_. Even if there’s no trace of anger to be seen in Minseok’s eyes, what would he think of Jongdae now? Would he stop seeing Jongdae after the night is over? 

Jongdae is pretty certain Minseok had expressed that he is an extremely loyal person, and expects a similar degree of loyalty from those he cares about. And he might have just single-handedly ruined the last bit of hope he had in ever establishing a proper relationship for once. Fuck fuck _fuck_.

“So, what’s it about?” Henry prods again. 

“It’s not—” _What you’re thinking_ , Jongdae wants to say, but there’s really no way to deny it. Sighing, Jongdae relents in the end. “It’s not him. I don't want to talk about it." 

"Oh damn, sorry," Henry's smug expression immediately falls, replaced by a look of remorse. "I'm guessing you'll want to be left alone until he gets back?" 

It takes one wry smile from Jongdae for Henry to get the hint, and he pats Jongdae sympathetically on the back before returning to his work station at the bar counter. The gesture kind of leaves a bitter after-taste on Jongdae's tongue, but he knows Henry means well. 

Nevertheless, the solitary moment of peace and quiet Jongdae had hoped to have before Minseok's return was dashed when someone suddenly slams their hands on the wooden tabletop. Jongdae's so surprised by the loud noise that he upturns his mug of beer on the table, though before he could even fully grasp what's going on, Jongdae's already being yanked out of his seat by a strong hand tugging on the lapel of his leather jacket. 

"You _fucking bastard_ ," the man seethes in Korean, and it takes Jongdae a moment longer before he realises it's Junsu breathing down his neck. "You were the one who asked someone to beat me up, weren't you?" 

"Beat you up?" Jongdae asks, genuinely confused, because he would rather beat Junsu up _himself_ instead of getting someone else to do the job for him. That’s when he notices the bruises on Junsu’s face, as well as the horrible split lip he’s sporting. There’s an odd satisfaction that bubbles up within him, but Jongdae doesn’t let it show. “What the hell happened to you?” 

“Funny you should ask,” Junsu snarls again, shaking Jongdae hard. He’s talking in a funny way, and Jongdae thinks he might have dislocated his jaw from the attack, too. “ _You_ were the only one who knew what happened between Liyin and I. The guy who hit me said he overheard someone telling a story about the incident and wanted to teach me a lesson.”

Jongdae tries to get himself out of Junsu’s death grip to no avail, so he keeps still instead, watching for signs that the man might raise a fist at him. Deep within, Jongdae really, _really_ hopes that Liyin doesn't decide to come out to the floor tonight, or he'll be in trouble.

“You bloody well _deserved_ to be taught a lesson, fuckwit,” he retaliates instead, keeping his chin up. With a smirk, Jongdae tacks on a calm, "Maybe Liyin _noona_ is the one who sent those guys after you. In any case, they're doing God's work."

That effectively set Junsu off. "Fucking _son of a_ —" He starts, though just as Junsu is about to land a punch on Jongdae's face, someone catches his arm from behind instead. 

"What seems to be the problem?" It's Minseok who's speaking in Chinese with relative ease, and Jongdae finds himself heaving a sigh of relief when Junsu is effectively distracted from the task at hand. 

"Mind your own busi—" Junsu tries to tell Minseok, though when he turns around and sees Minseok's angry expression, the blood suddenly drains from his face. He releases Jongdae at once, as though he were made of hot iron, and quickly backed away from Minseok. " _You_ —" 

"Me?" Minseok points at himself and tilts his head innocently to the side, though there seems to be a hint of a challenge reflected in his sharp eyes. "When you're bothering my date for the night, it automatically becomes my business. What's _your_ business with him?" 

"You were the one the other night, weren't you? The one who assaulted me in the alleyway?" Junsu asks, promptly throwing Jongdae into confusion. Minseok had never mentioned he'd met Junsu before. Is Minseok hiding something from him, or is Junsu high on drugs and hallucinating at this very moment? The latter seems very plausible, especially after the accusation he had just thrown at Jongdae moments ago. Junsu has a track record of doing illegal substances, although this is a fact known only to Jongdae and Henry. Liyin would _kill_ Jongdae if she ever found out that Jongdae was keeping this from her.

Minseok's expression is unchanging as he answers Junsu, smile pleasant. "I'm sure you have the wrong person. I've never seen you before." 

Jongdae interjects when Junsu makes an attempt at trashing Minseok's words. "Stop embarrassing yourself, Junsu. Are you only going to stop once the whole world discovers what you've done?" 

That's when Junsu makes a lunge for Jongdae, teeth bared and arms outstretched, seemingly keen on strangling Jongdae to death. Henry, who has been watching the entire incident unfold from the bar, makes to call the security, though before he could even leave his workstation, Minseok has already intercepted the attack with a firm grip on Junsu's forearm. Junsu cries out in pain when Minseok twists his arm sharply, and Jongdae finds himself feeling impressed. 

"Did I not say that Zhongda's business is my business? Have I not made myself clear? Now are you, or are you not going to leave this bar?" asks Minseok, though his tone has taken on a dangerous edge now. There's anger in his eyes and tenseness in the lines of his body, and for a split second, Minseok seems like a completely different person. 

That mirage is gone the moment Junsu pries himself loose. "Fine, you win this time. But trust me when I say I won't let this incident slide so easily," he warns, though he doesn't require further threats to take his leave from the Rotten Love.

"Thanks," Jongdae mutters to Minseok the moment Junsu is completely out of earshot, feeling the exhaustion wash over him. He didn't even realise how tense he'd been, with Junsu in such close proximity. "You didn't have to do that for me."

Minseok smiles in a placating manner at him. "I can't possibly stand aside and watch while someone threatens the person I care about. But if you insist, I won't interfere next time." 

Jongdae rightfully flushes scarlet, flustered at how Minseok had labelled him as a person he cared about in such a carefree manner. He's not sure if Minseok knows of the effect he has on Jongdae, but he's not about to ask that question aloud, either. Jongdae has embarrassed himself enough for the night, and he consciously tugs on his leather jacket when he remembers the hickey Henry had pointed out earlier, trying to hide the mark from view. 

He's not sure if he imagined the dark look in Minseok's eyes when Minseok takes note of his actions—something akin to jealousy and rage—but the expression is gone the next time Jongdae blinks. Instead, Minseok is still all smiles as he takes Jongdae's hand in his, and begins to lead him out of the bar. "I think you've had enough for the day. I'll take you home." 

Jongdae can only nod quietly, allowing Minseok to do as he pleases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update; I hope the long chapter makes up for it. I'll have to put this fic on temporary hiatus for now though, since I have two fests to complete, but I should be back towards the end of January if everything goes well. I may or may not update in between, depending on my progress with those fests; don't keep your hopes up though. See you soon!


	7. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, seems like it has almost been half a year since my last update ;;;; I'm sorry! Life has been pretty hectic for me, to say the least, and I've also been hit with the worst case of writer's block ever....... regardless, I hope my inspiration for this fic will continue flowing, so stay tuned, I guess?
> 
> Here's a 10k-worded chapter to appease you guys for now :D
> 
>  

His skin crawls from extreme discomfort as he enters through the heavily tinted glass doors, hyperaware of the two burly men who are currently trailing after him. The room itself is illuminated by an ominous red lighting, making him feel as though he’s walking right into the set of a horror movie. The dim atmosphere is making his head throb dully, an effect of him straining his eyes to discern his path in the poorly-lit space. 

 

Tendrils of smoke slowly rise into the air, emanating from the ends of still-lit cigarette butts lodged between stubby fingers and resting against ashtrays, only to collect in a thick blanket close to the ceiling. There aren't any windows in the room, merely small ventilation fans which don't do nearly enough to clear the room of its pollutants. Jongdae coughs, chokes on the stale, pungent air, then reminds himself to breathe as shallowly as possible to not have a repeat of the incident. He thinks he might end up having a panic attack, if he doesn't get to breathe in some fresh air soon. The room is dark, _so dark_ , and his head spins and throbs from the lack of light and proper ventilation.

 

This is one of the many reasons why Jongdae absolutely loathes setting foot in here, but it’s not like he’s being offered an alternative. Whatever business he's being summoned here for isn't even suitable to be discussed in broad daylight, let alone be casually raised in a café located by the roadside. The city people are much too nosy for their own good, eavesdropping on everyone else’s conversations while carrying on with their own, and it would definitely cause an uproar if Jongdae were to converse in his own native language. He was supposed to blend in, to pretend that he was a local, not to stick out like a sore thumb. 

 

“The boss will see you now,” Jongdae is told when he arrives at the end of the smog-filled corridor. Yet another muscular man is standing guard at the entrance, eclipsing Jongdae in size and glaring down at him, but Jongdae has long since learned not to give in to intimidation. He knows all to well now; if he ever cowers in fear while in their presence, they'd have even more fun ridiculing and teasing Jongdae. They're already merciless enough with their words as it is. 

 

Jongdae draws up every last bit of his courage and raises his chin, steadily keeping his gaze ahead as he pushes past the door and into the most dreaded room of the establishment. He hears the derisive chuckle coming from the two men behind him, likely mocking him for acting like he possesses a great deal of dignity, but he decidedly ignores them. He knows what they must think of him—those who walk through these doors are made up of either one of two very distinct groups of people; you're either the customer, or the one providing sexual services. There is no in-between. They've seen enough of Jongdae to identify him as belonging to the latter group, and they've taken to treating him like dirt, like he doesn't even deserve an ounce of respect. 

 

He's been called a _filthy whore_ more times than he can count. Jongdae is frankly numbed by now, though the words still leave a bitter after-taste on his tongue. Nothing's probably going to change it. 

 

The room is exactly like how he remembers it to be, even though it's been three months since he had last set foot in here—messy, stinking of nicotine and tar, and with questionable sex toys strewn all over the place. Jongdae's eyes rake over the place, and tries his level best not to gag at the sight of used condoms discarded haphazardly on the floor. Jongdae doesn't want to be seen around these premises unless absolutely necessary, and had opted for his payment to be done through his bank account for this very reason. At least it wouldn't arouse any suspicion from the rest of the neighbourhood. The last thing Jongdae would want is for his face to be recognised by those who aren't his customers or the ones running this place. 

 

"You're as dashing as ever... and terribly lacking in manners." The man who's seated at the cluttered desk speaks up in crisp Korean, making Jongdae jump. His cheeks flush red at being caught for letting his eyes wander around the room, but Jongdae really can't help it. It's part of his nature to be curious, as well as have a penchant for cleanliness. This place is anything _but_ clean, just like the man running the place himself. 

 

Still, he refuses to fall into that docile role the man in front of him is expecting him to. He knows of the man's kinks, and one of them is to stress his dominance over everyone else. He gets off on ordering people around, though when Jongdae thinks about it, this seems to be the perfect job for the man. "What do you want with me, Seungri? You promised you wouldn't summon me here when I agreed to work for you." 

 

At first glance, Seungri may seem like an unassuming person, but he hides a lot more under those fox-like eyes and thin smile than he really lets on. Just like his name, Seungri craves to be victorious in everything he does, and would never take on anything which would incur losses on his part. Smart and cunning and annoying and _manipulative_. Jongdae's reminded of that last bit—one of the main reasons why he hates the man with a burning passion since years ago—when he looks at Seungri and finds an infuriating smirk plastered on his face. 

 

While Jongdae was still in Seoul, Seungri was the one who pimped him out with the promise of lucrative returns in exchange for his body. Jongdae had agreed, albeit reluctantly, because his mother was ill back then and needed a large sum of money for her medical expenses in a short amount of time. Jongdae had no choice. 

 

(It’s now a bitter reminiscent of that past which Jongdae had wanted so badly to shake off. He wishes it’s nothing more than a nightmare.)

 

And when Seungri threatened to expose Jongdae’s actions to his family members when Jongdae told him he was quitting, Jongdae saw only one way out of it—pack his bags and move out of Seoul, but not after telling his parents he no longer wanted to have anything to do with them. It was the only option Jongdae could think of, to protect himself and to avoid his family from being at the receiving end of vicious mockery from their neighbours. Jongdae has heard enough of the disgusting remarks of the women in his neighbourhood, condemning the sex industry and the prostitutes whom their husbands ended up visiting. 

 

They didn’t have to know that some of their husbands went to someone of the same gender, too; Jongdae had seen them going about in his circle. He managed to stop short of servicing them, and his secret was mercifully kept safe in return of him keeping theirs, even until he left Seoul in search of anonymity in a foreign land. 

 

Unfortunately, Seungri made the same move by shifting to China for reasons unknown, and managed to dig Jongdae up from the massive crowd who lives in Beijing. _Are you still interested in selling your body for me?_ , Seungri had asked in his very first text message in years. _I know it mustn’t be easy, to be suddenly deprived of sex when you’ve been getting fucked on the daily._

 

Jongdae refused to admit that he’d struggled with the emptiness and the cravings for years before Seungri’s message came. Things had only gotten better for him because Liyin was there to care for him, and he could turn to singing as an outlet to distract himself from the need to be stretched wide open. 

 

Until now. Until Seungri returned to Jongdae’s life uninvited. 

 

He may be the boss of this business venture, but Jongdae knows Seungri isn't the top person running the entire show, either. There's Choi Seunghyun above him, overseeing the many branches of his gang as the most well-known Korean gang leader in Beijing. Jongdae may not be well-versed with the Chinese underworld, but he's been given enough glimpses into the dark side of the country to know a thing or two. He wishes desperately not to be even more involved with that side of the world than he already is. He still has a dream to chase. 

 

"Ah _ah_ ," Seungri tuts, wagging his finger mockingly at Jongdae. “You and I both know very well that’s not part of our deal. _Our_ deal gives me free pass to summon you here whenever I please, which is also out of necessity, so to speak. You should take a seat." 

 

Jongdae glances around the room furtively and inspects the only available surface from afar with a disgusted look, before turning back to regard Seungri. "No thanks, I intend to keep this short. What _do_ you want with me?” 

 

Seungri stubs out the cigarette he was smoking onto the overfilled ashtray with more force than necessary, rattling his desk and scattering more cigarette butts onto its surface. The smirk he was wearing is now gone without a trace, his gaze sharp and expression sour as he leans forward. He drums his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. “ _Fine_ , if you want to play it that way. I was thinking of giving you a chance, since you’ve been such a good boy, but you’ve stretched my patience to the limit. I'm reducing your pay share to 50-50." 

 

"What?!" Jongdae practically pounces at Seungri, slamming his open palms onto the filthy table. "You can't _do_ that! You promised to give me 70-30 in my favour!" 

 

Seungri has a look of nonchalance as he leans back in his cracked leather seat and lights up another cigarette. The way he takes a deep drag before pulling the cigarette out with an exaggerated 'pop' grates on Jongdae's nerves. "What can I say? Times are hard, money's not coming in as quickly as it should _for me_. I gotta increase my margin of profit. Besides, I'm the boss. I can do whatever I want."

 

"What the fuck, Seungri, you can't do that!" Jongdae knows he's beginning to sound like a broken record, repeating himself over and over again, but he doesn't fucking care. His father's time is running out, no matter how much Jongdae declares that he hates his father for gambling away the family's wealth. He's _desperate_ for money, and he bets Seungri knows it. Seungri is definitely trying to manipulate him, bully him into giving in, because he knows Jongdae doesn't have a choice. A new round of expletives is on his tongue, but Jongdae takes in a deep breath and exhales as calmly as possible. "Please. I _need_ the money." 

 

"I can always loan you the amount you need—" he shrugs, still playing with the cap of his metal lighter, watching Jongdae's expression closely from his throne. Each click grates on Jongdae's nerves even more, but he tries to reign his anger and frustration in. He's in Seungri's territory, with no one to help him if things go awry. Nothing good will come out of him blowing up at Seungri. "—interest rates not included, of course. Or you can also opt out of this arrangement and get your clients on your own. _Then_ all your earnings will belong to you and you alone. What do you say?"

 

Agreeing to Seungri’s cutthroat interest rates is suicidal, especially with the amount of money Jongdae requires. At the rate things are going, Jongdae would end up having to sell his body for the rest of his life. He'd rather _die_ than subject himself to such a miserable life. Besides, if Jongdae ever considered going against their agreement, he knows Seungri will take every measure possible to ensure that Jongdae won’t be able to set foot in this industry ever again. He has the resources to spread malicious rumours about Jongdae, and everyone would buy it. 

 

"No, I'll earn the money by myself. I'm not far away from the target," he ends up lying, hoping Seungri doesn't pick up on it. "Please, Seungri. Keep it at 70-30 for me. One person won't make such a huge difference." 

 

Jongdae hates what he's saying—he shouldn't be compromising someone else's livelihood for the sake of keeping his own—but it's a dog-eat-dog world out there. There's no place for his guilty conscience to crawl to the surface, when his father's life is on the line. His mother would hate him for the rest of his life if Jongdae doesn’t provide the money to save his father. Jongdeok has long since deserted the family, almost as soon as Jongdae himself had left Seoul, he heard; his elder brother is probably sick of their father’s stubbornness too. He doesn’t blame Jongdeok for it, but he _does_ feel rather resentful that his brother isn’t helping to share the financial burden with him—wherever he is.

 

Then again, Jongdeok has always been the better one when it comes to playing hide and seek between them both, even when they were younger. Jongdae always lost, no matter how brilliant he thought his hiding place was, and he could never find Jongdeok until he yelled “I give up!” 

 

If only life is as simple as that, now. 

 

“No,” Seungri maintains, adamant. The infuriating smirk on his lips grows even wider. “The more you bargain, the more I’m going to deduct your part of the share. You wouldn’t want to be getting 20-80, would you?”

 

Knowing that Seungri has him cornered, Jongdae finally heaves a sigh of defeat, withdrawing himself from Seungri’s desk with his gaze downcast. His insides are burning with rage and frustration, but what comes out of his mouth is a meek, “Fine. 50-50 it is."

 

The loud cackle coming from Seungri at the sound of his words doesn't sit well with Jongdae at all, but still he swallows down the indignation and takes his leave. He swears he will get himself out of this mess one day.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

There is great pleasure in intimidating someone else, watching them stutter and cowering away, pupils dilating in fear as he walks closer to them. Minseok wonders why he’s never learned of this before.

 

Then again, Minseok has never held as much influence or power as he does now, slowly expanding his territory by the day with the help of Zitao and the rest of his underlings. Looking back at his drug pushing days, it all seems so far behind now. Realistically speaking, though, it hasn’t been more than four months since he’d killed Mao Jingren and took Huang Zitao under his wing. 

 

Having useful subordinates definitely makes a huge difference. 

 

Their latest target is the owner of a bar on one of the busier streets in the Beijing suburbs, and he's been putting up a fair bit of resistance in the past week since Zitao had first proposed to Minseok that they started collecting protection money from him. At first, it was the usual way they did their business—by asking them to cough up a small sum of money in exchange for uninterrupted business, as long as Minseok's gang is in charge of the territory. Other businesses usually gave in easily, all smiles and words of gratitude as they handed the requested sum over to Zitao. They all know it's part and parcel of running a business in Beijing, especially when gang activity is so widespread. There have been instances where some shops were forced into closure barely a week later by another gang, whenever their owners refuse to put in their payments. On the other hand, those who pay a healthier sum of money would see their businesses prospering, their shops constantly filled with customers which seemingly appear out of nowhere. 

 

It's a never-ending cycle of giving and receiving. Such is the unwritten rule of the underworld, and those who choose to dabble within _know_ very well what they're getting themselves into. Several thousand _yuan_ is a small sum in exchange for peace. 

 

This man, though, is a little trickier than the rest Zitao has had to deal with—or so Zitao tells Minseok. The man seems to be somewhat new in town, having procured the shop lot several months ago only to proceed with a large-scale renovation which lasted until two weeks prior. From what Minseok has gathered, it appears as though the man has no inkling about the norm, and efforts on Zitao's part to explain it good-naturedly (or as kindly as he can manage without throwing a punch out of anger) have failed miserably. 

 

Technically, they _could_ beat the owner into submission—at the end of the day, they're still extorting money from these business owners, albeit in a less brutal manner—but that's not what Minseok is after. He prefers settling things in a more... _amicable_ manner, if it could even be applied to gang leaders like him. Weapons are meant to be kept away until the very last moment, and Minseok would rather not resort to such drastic actions if he has the choice. The use of weapons would leave too many traces behind—all of which could potentially link back to him and his gang, if the police know where to look. It’s a risk Minseok is keen on avoiding for now, when he’s still actively trying to establish his name. 

 

Nevertheless, seeing how stubborn the owner of the bar actually is, Minseok thinks it would be more prudent for him to personally pay the premise a visit.

 

As expected, the bar is already extremely lively by the time the clock strikes eight, not unlike the Rotten Love which Minseok frequents, though he supposes it’s the effect of the weekend. Minseok’s rather impressed by the bar’s design, edgy enough to lure its target audience in, yet not too tacky that it’d make others cringe at the sight of it. Its name _Kontrol_ is displayed vertically at the entrance in an eye-catching shade of neon red, as well as over the bar counter when Minseok walks in, its furnishings made of sleek metal instead of the usual wooden furniture and gaudy plush cushions one would find in these areas. It's obvious that the owner of Kontrol has pretty good taste. 

 

For his customers' sake, though, Minseok hopes he has these furnitures bolted firmly to the ground. It wouldn't be a pretty sight when the alcohol and rage levels run high. The police would be swarming the area in no time. 

 

“Hey,” the bartender greets with a wide smile when Minseok seats himself on one of the stools, interrupting Minseok from checking the rest of the bar out. Minseok doesn’t mind, though; he has all evening to while away. Besides, he could probably get some useful information out of the bartender. “I haven’t seen you around these parts before. Are you new?” 

 

"Not really," Minseok smiles back at him, acting as casually as he possibly can. "My usual haunt is closed today, and I kind of wandered off the path and found this place. It's nice."

 

"Glad that you think so. The boss is going to be ecstatic to find someone who appreciates his bar for once, instead of having troublemakers knocking on his door every single day," the man—a tall, youthful guy with an infectious smile—replies as he wipes another glass down and keeps it on the stand. There's a bit of accent to his words, which reminds Minseok of his native language, but he doesn't put too much thought into it. It's not abnormal to find Koreans working in Chinese establishments, sometimes even deliberately concealing their background in order to not get discriminated against. He doesn't ask, though. He doesn't want to get the guy into unnecessary trouble with his boss. "So what can I get you tonight?"

 

"A glass of Heineken draught would be good, thank you—" Minseok says, and the bartender, who quips with a cheerful _I'm Canlie_ , immediately sets off to fetch him his order. Minseok thanks Canlie once he gets his drink, and just as nonchalantly ignites the conversation again. "You were talking about having some troublemakers around here. Do you mind telling me who they are, and what did they want? I’d hate to get into trouble with them, if you know what I mean.”

 

Canlie scrunches his nose in distaste, probably having recalled some unsavoury memory, and sighs dramatically. "The usual gang activity, I suppose. I don't know the whole story, but those guys who are always here actually look the part. I don't understand why the police won't do anything about it." 

 

It was a good idea on his part for not bringing Zitao and his other underlings along, Minseok muses as he nurses his drink. It's clear that Canlie would be able to recognise them the moment they stepped in through the doors, and Minseok's effort in getting to know the establishment better would have been thwarted. Like this, at least he could try gaining Canlie's trust and probably weasel his way to the back room, where he's certain the owner of the bar is currently at. Minseok was told that the owner doesn’t leave the bar until closing time, and he’s never deviated from that routine as of yet. Zitao has outlined the rough blueprint of the building for him the night before, thanks to the man’s keen observational skills. He had good enough sense to actually memorise the path in case they needed to revert to Plan B. The slow trickle of alcohol down his throat burns in a good way, and he sighs contentedly as he sets his now-drained glass down. 

 

Canlie seems impressed by the speed at which Minseok had downed the drink, and offers to get him another one, which Minseok refuses. "Maybe later. I get bloated a little too easily on beer, and I don't want to have that ruining my night," Minseok clarifies when Canlie raises an eyebrow at him. Thankfully, Canlie buys the excuse all too easily, toothy grin plastered on his face as he nods and excuses himself to attend to another customer.

 

With Canlie gone and distracted, it gives Minseok leeway to do whatever he came here to do. He sits at the counter for a moment longer to not draw suspicion to himself before heading off to the dance floor, all while casting surreptitious glances at the bar area to ensure that he's not being watched by Canlie. It turns out Canlie is just a naturally trusting person, and Minseok's tiny conversation with Canlie was more than adequate to diffuse any sort of suspicion he harbours for Minseok. 

 

It might sound sad, but Canlie wouldn't last a day in this dark underworld. Trust is a heavy price to pay. 

 

It's a good thing Kontrol has a substantial crowd on the floor by the time Minseok makes his move, sneaking into the back by keeping himself in the shadows of the bar, as close to the walls as he possibly can. No one, not even the staff manning the floor, are paying him any attention, the alcohol and the adrenaline high clouding their senses. Minseok wouldn’t be surprised if Ecstasy has been thrown into the fray of intoxicated people gyrating on the dance floor; he’s seen some suspicious-looking packets being passed around earlier. If everything goes well, then he’ll have another base to push his goods.

It almost feels as though he’s walked into a completely different dimension when Minseok arrives at the back of the bar, however, the loud bass music cutting off abruptly after Minseok turns down the third corner. The corridor is completely deserted, not a single soul seen walking around, though Minseok is careful to keep his face hidden from the security cameras. They may not be visible, but Minseok is more than sure they’ve been placed everywhere—it’s part of the standard business protocol, after all. The least he can do is to maintain some element of surprise before he barges into the office of the owner of Kontrol, though he wonders if the owner thinks he's just a drunk customer who had wandered off unknowingly. While he's glad there aren't any bouncers chasing after him to haul him away, Minseok remains vigilant regardless. Letting his guard down in a place he's not exactly familiar with is suicide. 

It takes another minute or two before Minseok manages to locate the room Zitao had singled out for him. Unlike the back area of Rotten Love, there aren't any signs to distinguish the doors from each other, making it difficult for those who have no prior knowledge of the place. He wouldn't be surprised to find half of these doors lining the hallway locked, probably doubling up as spare rooms for customers who are looking for a quick fuck or two—for a fee, of course. He's heard of the tell-tale noises along his way, muffled but still there.

The door of the office is surprisingly unlocked when Minseok tries, and a lone man is hunched over the desk, doing some paperwork when Minseok lets himself in. 

“Good evening,” Minseok clears his throat and greets, smirking when the man finally looks up. The man’s expression is carefully blank, gaze icy cold as he watches Minseok stroll into the room and taking the seat across him without being invited to do so. “You don’t seem very surprised to see me in here.” 

The man simply points towards the panel of screens to his right—security camera footages, as Minseok had expected—with his pen, before finally settling it on the table and leaning back into his seat. “You weren’t exactly inconspicuous, you know,” he says, words rolling off his lips smoothly. His lips are pressed into a thin line, the only indication of his displeasure at the rude intrusion. 

"There isn't much of a point in keeping to the shadows," Minseok shrugs offhandedly. For someone who keeps the CCTV monitors in the confines of his office, Minseok doesn’t doubt the owner had ensured that the CCTVs covered the entire vicinity of his bar, too, leaving no corners unmonitored. 

"Funny something like that should come out of the mouth of someone who's from the underworld," the owner of the bar quips, smirking a little at Minseok's words. "Unless, of course, I'm wrong about you."

This time, it's Minseok's turn to smirk. "Looks like you have a good understanding of how things work around here. Funny how your actions seem to contradict that knowledge.”

"Ah, so those were your underlings?" The man asks again, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers as he continues to observe Minseok with interest. 

"Which ones? It's dangerous to assume, you know. Some might take personal offence when you randomly label some passer-by as part of their gang," Minseok feigns innocence, raising an eyebrow in challenge. “I personally prefer maintaining some semblance of quality amongst my men.” 

His words only serve to rile the man seated in front of him up, and Minseok wants to laugh when the man slams his palm against the table, clearly irked. That icy façade melts away in an instant, leaving behind a man with his raw emotions.

Minseok wonders if he knows how terribly young he looks right now. 

"The one with more earrings than a person should have," the man says, his pale skin now red from anger. Minseok's sure he's talking about Zitao, but he has to laud the man for his observational skills. The office isn’t exactly that well-lit to begin with, and Zitao oftentimes preferred wearing black piercings while he’s on the job. "He's the only one who ever made it this far into the club to know its layout. He's one of yours, isn't he?" 

Deciding that he's had enough of teasing the man, Minseok merely shrugs. "Oh, you meant Tao. Yeah, he works under me. I’ve been told you were giving them heaps of trouble while they were trying to coax you into seeing things our way." 

The man scoffs incredulously at Minseok's words. "Me? Giving him trouble? Are you sure it's not the other way around?"

" _Look_ ," Minseok hisses, leaning forward to give the man a look of warning. "What we want is simple. I know you're allowing drug deals under your roof. You just have to pay us a fixed amount every month, and we will offer you protection in return—from the police and from other gangs. What do you say?"

"I'm not offering you a slice of the pie," the man retorts, evidently oblivious to the concealed threat in Minseok's words. "Why should I share the income when I can run this joint on my own?" 

It's the last straw for Minseok, his patience having worn thin by their short exchange. Zitao was right when he told Minseok this guy was a handful to deal with. He immediately lunges across the table and digs his fingers into the fabric of the man's collared shirt, yanking him forward. His free hand quickly whips out the penknife he's kept pocketed, flipping it open and pressing it against the pressure point of the man's neck, firm enough to make its presence known, but not nearly enough to slice through skin. 

That's when the man finally learns that Minseok is serious with his threat, judging by the way his pupils dilate, his palms clammy as they cling onto Minseok's hand which is holding him up by the collar. He turns yet another shade paler, the blood draining completely from his face, and he continuously licks at his cracked lips out of nervousness. 

Good; Minseok really should have taught him a lesson much earlier. 

"I'm not much of a fan of intimidation, so I'm going to give you one last chance. Do you, or do you not want to cut a deal with me?" Minseok asks, smile saccharine as he stares the man down. It’s funny how small the other man has become, when he actually towers over Minseok in height. 

"Sh—" the man starts, licking at his lips once again before he utters a quiet _ssibal_ under his breath. Minseok does a double take, not having expected to hear a _Korean_ cuss word coming from the man. He may have suspected Canlie to be a Korean, but the owner of the bar had been speaking in fluent, accent-less Chinese to him all this while, and Minseok had no reason to think that he was anything but a Chinese national.

Until now. 

It certainly makes things a lot easier for Minseok, and he effortlessly switches back to his mother tongue, deciding that there isn’t a point in hiding his true nationality. "Us Koreans should always stick together, shouldn't we? I understand you might have thought that sharing your profit with a Chinese is rather off-putting, but would you change your mind for a fellow countryman?" 

The way the man's eyes widen at the sound of Minseok's words is almost comical, a drastic change from his icy cold exterior earlier. “You’re Korean too?” He asks, incredulous, and the edge in his voice is completely gone. “You don’t— I don’t understand—”

“Do you have _any_ idea how difficult it is for a Korean like me to survive in the Chinese underworld, especially when I don’t put in the effort to blend in?” Minseok smirks, still keeping his penknife pressed against the man’s neck. He’s trembling in Minseok’s hold now, eyes continuously darting back and forth between Minseok’s face then at his arm holding up the penknife, probably trying to read Minseok’s expressions and decipher Minseok’s next course of action. It doesn’t matter to Minseok; he knows now that the thin man before him can’t do much to harm him, not having the courage to do so. "Once they know you're not from around, they're going to trample on you, and run you out of business. But of course, you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have spoken in such crisp Mandarin Chinese to throw others off.”

“You have to do everything in your capacity to survive in these parts, or you’d end up dying on the streets,” the man hisses through clenched teeth, frustration obvious through his intonation. It’s probably not the first time the man has ever experienced such hardships in this country, but he hasn’t been hardened enough by them to be completely numbed. Those who _are_ indeed detached wouldn’t have their emotions running high like this. 

“This is why I’m offering you the option to provide me with a small payment in exchange for protection. I will ensure a steady flow of customers and supplies as you please, and stop anyone who even dares disturb your business,” Minseok says, easing the pressure of his penknife on the man’s neck when he sees the defiant light in his eyes fade away. He’s winning the battle, and it pleases him very much to know it. “Do you want to take up the offer, or would you rather have me harass you on the daily? The choice is yours." 

With a smirk, Minseok taps the owner of the bar lightly on his cheek and lets him go, giving him some space to make his final decision. The man collapses in his chair almost immediately, boneless from fear, as Minseok goes around his desk once again to reclaim the other empty seat in the room. The man’s expression returns to its initial iciness soon enough though, and Minseok can almost hear the gears turning and then coming to a complete stop in his head. There’s decisiveness in the way he clenches his fist and reaches for his previously discarded pen, and he looks up at Minseok through his lashes with a similarly firm gaze. 

“How much?” He asks, and when Minseok raises an inquisitive brow at him, he sighs and waves his cheque book at Minseok. “I’m writing you a cheque. I don’t keep that much cash in my establishment. Potential robberies and all.”

“Ah, that’s fine,” Minseok chuckles. Careful indeed. Minseok doesn’t mind though. At least now the man has one thing less to worry about, once Minseok’s gang starts extending their protection to Kontrol. “My minimum asking price is 2,500 _yuan_ , but you’re welcomed to provide any amount above that.”

The man nods and tentatively writes down a singular ‘8’, before glancing at Minseok once again. “Have you killed anyone before? Or have you been providing nothing but empty threats like you just did?” 

Minseok blinks, feigning innocence. “Empty threats? Whatever do you mean by that?”

“You weren’t actually going to kill me, were you? In the event that I refused to give in?” The man asks again, watching Minseok’s expression closely. Minseok wants to laugh, wants to ask him to give it up because there’s no way he’s getting any information out of Minseok’s face, but he doesn’t. The man deserves a medal for trying, though. 

“Who knows,” Minseok shrugs, opting to remain mysterious. “I’ve killed someone before, and I was told I can be _quite_ trigger-happy when I’m pissed off.” 

He ends the sentence with yet another saccharine smile, watching in satisfaction as the other man turns a shade paler at his confession and starts filling in the rest of the numbers, ending it with quadruple eights. A good number according to the Chinese, for them to rake in more money and grow rich. Some superstitions never change, apparently. 

“Here; I will pledge the same payment every month from hereon,” the man says, pushing the cheque towards Minseok after signing it off. Minseok takes note of how he’s left the recipient’s name section empty, a sign of trust to allow Minseok to do as he pleases. 

“Kim Minseok,” he says simply, watching as the man quirks an eyebrow at him. He’s not worried that the man would betray him, not when they come from the same country. It’s a smarter move to stick together than to stab each other in the back, when they’re in a foreign land with no one else for them to depend upon. “That’s my name. You can write it in the recipient field, if you want to. But outside this room, I’m Xiumin.”

The man stares at Minseok for a moment longer, before his expression changes from one of confusion to one of relief as he pens down Minseok’s name in neat characters. Once he’s done, he returns the cheque to Minseok, and holds out his hand for Minseok to shake. 

“Oh Sehun. _Shixun_ ,” he says, returning to his confident self from before. The way he squeezes Minseok’s hand in return reflects that, too, and Minseok thinks he’s probably found the perfect partner to expand his business. “It’s a great pleasure to be working with you.” 

Minseok smirks as he shakes Sehun’s hand firmly. “Likewise.”

 

* * *

 

He’s not one to smoke very often, because he doesn’t quite enjoy the way cigarettes sold in this country leave a stale taste on his tongue. That’s not how he remembers his favourite Salem to taste like, not back in Seoul where he used to light up a lot more often—and he’s never stopped wondering if they’re merely cheap imitation products after all. On the rare occasion, though, he forces himself to ignore its odd taste, focusing on savouring the way nicotine surges through his system instead.

Today is one of those special occasions, and Minseok finds himself lighting up a cigarette as he exits Kontrol triumphantly, feeling as though an invisible weight has just been lifted off his shoulders. He was prepared to take things a step further by actually physically hurting Sehun if he didn’t give in to Minseok’s demands, but Minseok is somewhat glad that his attempts at diplomacy were successful in the end. 

It’s not as though he’s begrudging his underlings’ ability at getting things done. He’s not. After his short exchange with Sehun earlier, it’s clear that Sehun doesn’t trust anyone who isn’t of Korean descent, and Minseok _gets_ it. He wouldn’t either, if he were in Sehun’s shoes. He’s been backstabbed more times than he can count over the years he’s been living in this country, and Minseok loathes to be at the receiving end of it again. It’s why he’s particularly careful in picking the people he associates himself with, and would even go to the extent of running a comprehensive background check on them if he has to. It’s also the reason why he had remained a Lone Ranger for so long, pushing drugs on his own before agreeing to take Zitao and the rest of his gang under his wing, after Minseok had snatched Mao Jingren’s territory by putting an end to his pathetic existence. 

Nevertheless, Minseok is still delighted by the fact that Sehun is willing to invest his trust in Minseok. He's confident that it's the beginning of greater things ahead, especially when Kontrol's reputation is steadily rising in Beijing's nightclub scene. The flow of customers coming to the club is only going to increase when word gets out to the general public, and it's precisely what Minseok needs to get more of his goods out there. He foresees the police _would_ become a problem in the long run, but Minseok is already in the midst of coming up with a plan to deal with it.

No one can say 'no' to a considerable sum of money, when the nation's economy is on a gradual decline. It's every man for themselves, and it's only a matter of how strong their principles are before they betray their own conscience. Minseok has lost his a long time ago. Having a conscience would only prevent him from achieving greater things, and he would probably find himself dead on the streets of Beijing by the end of the month, if he ever held on to the morals inculcated in him by his parents. 

His parents would probably roll in their graves out of disappointment, if they ever find out what Minseok was doing now. There isn’t a point in worrying about it, though. He’ll answer to them in the afterlife, if he ever gets to meet them again, but he doesn’t think it’s going to happen in the nearest foreseeable future. He’s determined not to allow it to happen. 

Just as Minseok takes another long drag of his cigarette, he’s alerted by the heavy sound of footsteps pounding against the pavement, coming towards him from behind. They’re much too forceful, much too purposeful for Minseok to attribute them as belonging to some drunkards, and his first instinct is to duck. It proves to be a good idea when two men stumble past him on either side, their outstretched hands clenched tightly in a fist. Loud curses erupt from both men when they realise belatedly that they had missed their target, but they swerve around soon enough, setting upon Minseok once again the moment they’ve regained their bearings. 

Minseok doesn’t wait around for them to catch him. He immediately gets to his feet and runs in the opposite direction towards Kontrol. He has no idea who they are or where they’re from, but what he _does_ know is this: they’re hell bent on getting their hands on him, and the likelihood of them wanting to kill him—for whatever reason Minseok can’t think of right now—is high. And he sure as hell won’t give in so easily, not without putting up a fight. 

He discards the cigarette wedged between his lips onto the ground as he continues to make a run for it, taking note of how the bouncers stationed in front of Kontrol are watching him questioningly as he bolts right past the establishment. There’s no time for Minseok to provide answers, though, not when two murderous men are hot on his heels. While the thought had briefly crossed his mind, Minseok doesn’t intend on bringing the fight to Kontrol either, even if it’s considered his turf now. He has a feeling Sehun wouldn’t appreciate him thrashing the place so soon after signing that cheque. 

It’s not a matter of being defenceless, though—Minseok’s knife is sitting primly in his pocket, and he’s more than capable of fighting them in a close-quarters combat—but more of a question of _how many_ of them are chasing after him. For all he knows, there could be more of them lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on him once he’s successfully captured, and Minseok can’t risk that right now. He’s alone, and there’s only so many he can take on by himself. 

In retrospect, he really should have allowed Zitao to be on standby outside Kontrol as backup, but it’s much too late for regrets now. 

Minseok’s earlier suspicions are confirmed when a black car screeches to a halt some ways in front of him, skidding a little as it comes to a stop on the pavement. The doors of the car are thrown open in the next moment, and four other men hop out of the vehicle before charging towards him, their weapons—machetes, guns, knives—raised threateningly. 

This is one of those rare situations where Minseok panics, though he manages to hold himself together quickly enough for the gears in his brain to work. Without hesitation, he dashes to his right onto the tarred road, not caring that there are still vehicles ploughing down the street at high speed at this time of the night. Getting run over by a car would probably be a more viable option than getting caught by this group of men and to get himself beaten to death on the streets. Death by gang fights, as Minseok has learned, generates a much greater hype than anything else on the newspapers, especially when there is a surge in crime rates as reported by the police. He can imagine how disappointed Jongdae would be in him, if he ever finds out what Minseok actually does for a living. 

The group of men are relentless in chasing after him, even when some of them are nearly crushed by an oncoming truck. Minseok doesn't turn around to look, though, not even when the sound of the truck's horn blares from behind him. Any pause in his movements could prove detrimental to his life, and Minseok is not stupid enough to risk it. 

His chest burns from exertion, each breath pricking his windpipe and leaving a scorching trail behind. Sweat rolls down the side of his cheeks in big fat drops, soaking his shirt thoroughly, and the damp fabric clings uncomfortably to his skin, making his head spin from the unbearable heat. The coolness of the early autumn night doesn’t do anything to alleviate the warmth at all. But still Minseok continues to run, successfully evading the group of thugs chasing after him for another two blocks, before his luck finally runs out. 

It comes in the form of a gaudy red Porsche 718 Boxster S speeding down the street from the opposite direction, the sound of its engine being revved bouncing off the brick walls as the vehicle picks up speed. Its driver doesn’t seem inclined to slow down at all, even as the car drivers dangerously close to the sidewalk. And Minseok barely jumps out of the way, narrowly avoiding the Porsche from flattening his foot when it swerves sharply into the lane Minseok was about to cross. Wisps of smoke emit from the car’s tyres when its owner slams on the brakes, and Minseok coughs when the pungent smell of burning rubber assaults his nose.

Nevertheless, Minseok’s cough dies in his throat when the owner of the Porsche alights from the vehicle. He’s dressed in a tacky black fur coat, expensive cigar tucked between his yellowing teeth, and it doesn’t take long for Minseok to recognise the face of the person who’s currently smirking right back at him. 

Choi Seunghyun. 

He’s trapped. 

“You’re quite the runner, aren’t you?” Seunghyun drawls, holding his cigar between his fingers and blowing a puff of smoke at Minseok. Minseok doesn’t fail to notice how Seunghyun is speaking in Korean to him, as though he _already_ knows who Minseok is, and where he’s from. “Though I must admit, you’ve done a pretty decent job in shaking off my men. Not many can do that,” he adds on, leaning a little to the side to look over Minseok’s shoulder. Behind Minseok, he can still hear the stampede coming up towards them, and Seunghyun raises a hand to stop his men from advancing. 

It’s probably a good thing; Minseok would’ve been pummelled to the ground by them if Seunghyun hadn’t done so. He can feel the heat of their glares on his back, all promising him hell for the amount of trouble he had just put them through. Someone's also tapping the tip of their metal bat against the pavement, the sound of each contact becoming more impatient, raring to have a go at Minseok the moment their boss gives them the green light to do so. 

Minseok doesn't turn around, refusing to acknowledge the looming threat. He knows what sort of mockery will come from their mouths if he ever looks at them, and Minseok _knows_ he’s better than that. He can only hope that Choi Seunghyun can’t hear his heart thundering in his chest—out of nervousness rather than fear, really, but it’s not as though they’re going to be bothered to make the distinction. 

Calmly, Minseok looks Seunghyun square in the eyes and smiles. “To whom do I owe the pleasure of meeting the famous Choi Seunghyun?” He asks, reverting to his native language without hesitation. He might trigger Seunghyun’s ire, if he ever insisted on communicating in Chinese and pretending he doesn’t know an ounce of Korean. He doesn't seem as though he's here to make friends with Minseok, or to let him go with a light warning. Someone must have tipped Seunghyun off about Minseok’s existence, and he’s itching to find out who.

He soon gets his answer, though, when the door of the passenger seat swings open and reveals another familiar face. _Of course_ he should have suspected that Kim Junsu was behind this, considering his position in Choi Seunghyun's mafia. Junsu didn't seem like the type to take any form of mockery being thrown in his direction sitting, and Minseok was right when he thought that Junsu wasn’t someone who’d fight his own battles, when he has such strong backing from one of the most ruthless gang leaders in the whole of Beijing.

As if he's able to decipher Minseok's thoughts, Seunghyun laughs. "Looks like you already have it all figured out. Junsu here says you beat him up the other day for no particular reason," he tells Minseok, who quirks a curious brow in Junsu's direction. The way Junsu flinches at the look Minseok is giving him is oh-so-satisfying. At least the man has some sort of conscience left in him. "I don't take such actions too kindly, and I will perceive it as you having beef with the rest of my gang."

"Is that what your little puppy here told you?" Minseok drawls, looking up at Seunghyun as he squats on the ground. He's so incredibly exhausted from all that running he's been doing in the last half an hour, and he doesn't quite care how he looks to the rest of Choi Seunghyun's gang. "Perhaps you should really clarify with him the reason behind my actions first, before you bring your men out for an unnecessary midnight run." 

Seunghyun clenches his jaw at Minseok's words. "What do you mean by that?" 

"Do you think I'm insane?" Minseok huffs, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes at the man. "I don't go around messing with members of another gang—especially one of your size—for the heck of it."

Seunghyun examines Minseok's nonchalant expression for a moment longer, before turning on Junsu. He takes a long drag of his cigar and blows a cloud of smog in Junsu's face, eyes narrowing when he sees his subordinate back away. Minseok is sure Seunghyun can read the fear in Junsu’s actions, after all the years he’s spent being the leader of his gang. There’s a stark difference between the simple action of stepping away from the pollutant, and cowering away in fear that his lies would be uncovered. Junsu is the latter.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Seunghyun asks Junsu instead, impatience written all over his features. Minseok pulls out another cigarette from his jeans pocket—he’s probably indulging himself a little too much today, but for good reason—and lights it up, taking a deep drag and feeling the effect of nicotine wash over him. He knows how he must look to Junsu right now: smug, and thoroughly enjoying Junsu’s misery, but it’s alright. Junsu deserves it, after the amount of shit he’s just put Minseok through. 

Minseok isn’t exactly patient himself. 

It’s probably a good thing Seunghyun isn’t as trigger-happy as he’s rumoured to be. Or perhaps he’s only showing mercy because Minseok is a fellow countryman, dipping his toes in the same field as Seunghyun is. Minseok is itching to find out which of his postulations is true. 

As expected, though, Junsu still tries to lie through his teeth. His answering smile is wide, forced, and the look he shoots in Minseok’s direction is filled with hatred. Minseok’s honestly not surprised. 

“I meant every word I said, boss. He’s the one who beat me up, and he even admitted to it.” 

Minseok wants to roll his eyes at Junsu again, but he’s quick to get on his feet and holds his fists in a defensive manner when Seunghyun approaches him threateningly. “Look, I’m really not here to fight,” he hisses through clenched teeth, feeling the heat creep up to him as Seunghyun’s men approach him from behind. In the opposite street, a passerby picks up his pace and looks away from the scene, probably already knowing that this would end up in a fight; no one wants to be implicated in gang fights these days, not even as a witness. Things never do end up well for them if they ever dared to testify in the court of law, or even to the police.

Gang members are a vengeful bunch, if Minseok should say so himself. 

Seunghyun doesn’t seem to buy Minseok’s words, though. He discards his cigar on the ground and stubs the ember out with the heel of his shoe, grinding down on it hard. It’s a warning to Minseok, of course, telling him that Seunghyun wouldn’t hesitate to pulverise him if there’s a valid reason for him to do so. “I don’t take it lightly when some stranger picks on my men. What kind of boss would I be, then?” 

“You’re free to beat me up, kill me if you want to—” Minseok challenges, taking another step back when Seunghyun raises his arm in preparation to signal his men to crowd around Minseok. It’s hardly a fair fight, if it boils down to that stage, but Minseok knows that this life is never ever fair. He chose this path, and understands the consequences very well. He’s not going to go down without putting up any form of resistance, though. “—but know this: if you defend this piece of filth here, then it would mean that you align with his ideals of beating up women without a thought.” 

Seunghyun narrows his eyes at Minseok once again. His arm drops just a little. “Clarify.” 

“He laid his hands on his girlfriend. Beat her up pretty badly. And she happens to be the sister of someone I care about a lot. That's why I took matters into my own hands and taught him a lesson instead,” Minseok tells Seunghyun, keeping his voice level even though he feels agitated deep within. He can’t forget the pain in Jongdae’s voice when he told Minseok about Liyin, how he feels useless and powerless for not being able to defend his own sister from a worthless piece of shit like Kim Junsu. For some reason, Jongdae's emotions affect him a great deal, even though it hasn't been very long since they've become acquainted. “Now tell me, would _you_ lay your hands on a woman? Especially when you claim to love her enough to want to marry her?"

Minseok's words are more than enough to have Seunghyun turning upon Junsu once again. "Is that true?" He seethes, face turning red from anger and embarrassment. Minseok can't imagine what it feels like to be in Seunghyun's shoes, being made to look like a fool in front of his subordinates because someone decided to lie to him for the sake of their own revenge. 

When Junsu decides to stay mute, though, it merely serves to irk Seunghyun further. He raises his voice when Junsu refuses to answer, words coming out in a harsh bark. "I _asked_ you a question, you imbecile! Is he telling the truth?!” 

“I—” Junsu starts, fumbling with his words along the way. At the rate he’s going, he’s probably going to wet his pants. Another sight to behold, definitely. Minseok wishes Jongdae was here to witness this—he has a hunch Jongdae already knows that Junsu is a part of a gang—but he’s not ready to let Jongdae find out what sort of _business_ Minseok’s dabbling in. Not just yet. 

“You _what_?” Seunghyun hisses again, grabbing the front of Junsu’s shirt and giving him a rough shake. It’s evident that Seunghyun’s patience is running dangerously thin, when he pulls out a Glock from his back pocket and presses its muzzle snug against Junsu’s forehead. “Talk, before I shoot you in the bloody head.” 

Minseok didn’t think it was quite possible for anyone to be _this_ pale unless physically drained of blood, but Junsu proves him wrong once again. Junsu’s as white as a sheet of paper, trembling uncontrollably as he tries to shift away from the muzzle of Seunghyun’s gun, eyes constantly gazing upwards at the weapon as though he could will it away. Seunghyun’s having none of it, though, fingers still tugging firmly at the front of Junsu’s shirt, dragging him back whenever he gets too far away from the gun for Seunghyun’s liking. 

“I—“ Junsu stutters again, yelping when Seunghyun jams the muzzle of his gun hard against Junsu’s temple. “—yes, boss. He did beat me up because of that incident.” 

And now Junsu’s cheeks are stained deep red from embarrassment as Seunghyun’s anger flares again. Junsu probably never expected to be forced into making a public admission about his wrongdoings, especially not in front of his fellow gang members. Minseok can hear several people sniggering at Junsu behind him, while several others aren’t even bothered to keep their displeasure at being set on a wild goose chase to themselves. If Junsu were any lower down in his gang’s hierarchy, Minseok wouldn’t be surprised to see the rest of them pummeling him to the ground the moment Junsu made his confession. 

“Fucking useless _asshole_!” Seunghyun blows up at Junsu, slamming the butt of his gun into the side of Junsu’s face. It fractures Junsu’s cheekbone—the sickening crack can be heard from the distance—and Minseok winces involuntarily when he imagines how it must feel to be on the receiving end of it. That _has_ got to hurt, though Minseok is more than eager to see Seunghyun break Junsu’s face. 

Still, a single hit isn’t even remotely adequate to soothe Seunghyun’s fury at being made to look like a complete idiot. Seunghyun lands a heavy-handed punch on Junsu’s stomach, sending him kneeling on the ground in pain, but Seunghyun doesn’t stop there. He deals several more blows on Junsu, causing Junsu to fall onto the asphalt in a prone position, before finally ending his assault with a well-aimed kick in Junsu’s side. Only then does Seunghyun pull away with a satisfied expression, fixing the lapels of his fur coat with a firm shake. Seunghyun spits onto the ground—it lands dangerously close to Junsu's heaving form—before finally glancing in Minseok's direction again. 

“I believe I owe you an apology for that, Xiumin,” he says, tone lazy as he strides in Minseok’s direction. 

Minseok’s eyes widen ever so marginally, wondering if he’s hearing it wrongly. The last thing any gang leader would offer is an apology, and Minseok expects it even less from Seunghyun. Clearly, Seunghyun proves himself to be different from the rumours surrounding his character. 

“You must be the first gang leader who tries to reason before resorting to fists,” Minseok tells him, feeling rather impressed by the turn of events.

Behind Seunghyun, Junsu is still heaving and sputtering more blood onto the ground, trying his best to get up but failing miserably. His facial expression is contorted in pain whenever he exerts some effort to push himself away from the asphalt, and in the end, Junsu gives up, maintaining his position on the ground and wheezing away in pain. 

Minseok can’t say he feels sorry for Junsu. 

“I have to maintain a good reputation,” Seunghyun smirks. “I can’t possibly go around killing everyone that crosses me and leave a trail of bodies behind, can I?”

Something tells Minseok Seunghyun isn’t usually this charitable, though. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that they’re fellow countrymen, which prompts Seunghyun to show him a bit of mercy which isn’t usually granted to anyone else in this country. Minseok wonders if he should start counting his lucky stars.

“I suppose not,” Minseok concedes moments later, though he goes tense once again when Seunghyun wraps an arm around his shoulder. He can see the shock and confusion in the faces of Seunghyun's gang members, probably wondering why Seunghyun is being chummy with someone he had ordered his men to hunt down earlier.

"Relax. I'm not going to do anything," Seunghyun reassures him with a short laugh. "I have a proposition, though. Since I like your integrity and all." 

It's almost laughable, how the leader of the largest Korean gang in Beijing's underworld should be talking about _integrity_ , of all things. Perhaps even the most morally corrupt have some semblance of conscience left, however little it may be. Perhaps their sense of loyalty and justice deviates from the norm, modified to suit their own egos. 

Preparing himself for the worst, Minseok inhales deeply and turns to look at Seunghyun. “What do you have in mind?” 

“A partnership,” Seunghyun says without hesitation, smirk growing wider when he sees the look of confusion on Minseok’s face. “I know you’re the leader of your own gang, and your area of influence doesn’t encroach on mine. I’m not going to push for a merger. But _imagine_. Just imagine how much more you can achieve if word gets out that we are allies.”

Not a difficult feat at all; Minseok can almost smell the cash that would roll in, if he were to agree to Seunghyun’s proposition. There aren't a lot of people out there who would even think about messing with an ally of Seunghyun’s, unless they have a death wish. It would be the perfect stepping stone for Minseok to get his name out _there_ , much faster than he would be able to achieve on his own. But— 

“What are your terms tied to the offer?” He asks cautiously. The offer almost sounds too good to be true. As much as Seunghyun admires his integrity, there’s no way in hell Seunghyun would offer a partnership without gaining something from it. 

Again, Seunghyun laughs. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?” He pats Minseok’s cheek once, twice. The smell of tobacco clings to the tips of Seunghyun’s fingers, wafting into Minseok’s senses through the gentle night breeze. One of the finest Cuban cigars, no doubt—with a handsome price to boot. “Your clientele. I know you have a pretty impressive roster, and I need to expand my business too.” 

That’s all? It almost sounds too good to be true, but Minseok isn’t going to push his luck any further. Instead, he holds out his hand for Seunghyun to shake, knowing that this night marks the beginning of a brand new era for all of them. 

“Deal.”


	8. seven

"What did I tell you about letting me go to Kontrol with you, boss?"

The smug voice resonates throughout the open space, ricocheting off the walls and ending in an echo that lingers long after the man had spoken. It’s loud enough to penetrate past Minseok’s earphones, where bass music is pumping through its system, and he glances up from his laptop screen at the person who had just joined him in his gang’s base.

Zitao, in his usual leather-clad flamboyance, ambles lazily the rest of the way before dropping himself on the newly-installed sofa to Minseok's right. He's playing with his metal lighter again, flicking it on then extinguishing it repeatedly, gaze fixated on the orange flames dancing in the dim light. He smells like a mixture of tobacco and weed, and the effect of the latter is evident in the way his eyes are glossed over.

"And I remember telling you it wasn’t necessary," Minseok shrugs, leaning back into his seat. His own eyes are beginning to hurt from the brightness of the computer screen, and he's glad he's finally able to take a break. Perhaps he should invest in a better desk lamp or something. "Doesn't take much to sweet talk a brat into seeing things my way."

As expected, Zitao scowls at him. "You know that's not what I meant."

Of course Minseok does; he was just looking for ways to mess with Zitao. It's good enough entertainment, watching Zitao's childish side crawl to the surface to replace the usually-confident image he carries around. Somehow, Zitao must have caught wind about the clash between him and Choi Seunghyun which took place several nights ago. He wouldn't be hanging around their base otherwise, preferring instead to scour the streets for more clients for their ever-expanding drug-pushing business, or to terrorise a neighbouring gang and expanding their area of influence.

“I made it out alive, didn’t I?” Minseok points out, picking the lint off the sleeve of his black button-down shirt. It’s a gift from Jongdae, after Jongdae had accidentally spilled some beer on Minseok in his overexcitement several weeks ago. The material feels comfortable against his skin.

“Still,” Zitao says flatly. “You could have died, if Choi Seunghyun went on his usual merry killing ways. And _then_ what would become of Huihuo?”

Minseok laughs, rather amused by Zitao’s rare display of concern. He’s usually a lot more aloof; Minseok hasn’t forgotten the way Zitao had stood in the shadows and watched as his previous boss’s life slowly ebbed away, drowning in his own blood that filled his lungs from Minseok’s heavily-landed kick to his chest.

“You could have taken over as the boss if I died,” he muses, watching as Zitao’s expression contorts into yet another scowl. He knows very well by now that Zitao doesn’t seek to lead. The younger man is fully content on doing things his way, and his fuse is way too short to deal with more than two underlings beneath his wing. For one, Zitao isn’t greedy, and it is a trait so rarely seen amongst those who dabble in the underworld that Minseok was rather taken aback at first.

Greed, after all, is one of the most important factors behind their drive to widen their area of influence. The only thing setting them all apart is the degree of greed they each hold, and how much they flaunt that trait. The more apparent their hunger for power is, the faster their downfall would come.

In that sense, Minseok is extremely careful.

“It’s not what I’m after,” Zitao grumbles, voicing out what Minseok has always known. Minseok doesn’t know if he’s being overly confident in his guesses, but he thinks Zitao might be after something very simple—a sense of belonging. He’s heard of the melancholy in Zitao’s voice when he told Minseok how he was orphaned since the age of ten, and has been prowling the streets aimlessly since then— _no one wanted to adopt a homeless child at that age_ , Zitao had said, self-derision apparent in his own words, _especially not someone with anger management issues_. 

“I know,” Minseok chuckles, lowering his laptop screen even further when someone tries to establish a video call with him—some customer, no doubt. He’s been getting plenty of uninvited conversations lately, and he’s honestly starting to think that this was a bad idea. “You just want to be the lackey, not the leader.”

“Right,” Zitao affirms, a satisfied smile playing on his thin lips. It's at times like these that his true age shows—he's but a young man of twenty three, but always acts like he's in his thirties. _So that people would actually take me seriously_ , he told Minseok once, and Minseok can really empathise with the sentiment. Minseok has received a fair amount of disparaging looks because of his youthful looks himself, and everyone thinks that he's fresh out of his teens, walking around with way too much confidence for someone so young.

Of course, Minseok made sure they regretted every word they had said to Minseok, with just the right amount of aggression. 

Needless to say, they never dared mess with Minseok ever again. 

“So,” Minseok starts again, twiddling a pen between his fingers as he looks at Zitao meaningfully. “Are you just here to chastise me for not telling you about my run-in with Choi Seunghyun, or do you have something else in particular to talk to me about?”

“You wound me so, boss,” Zitao mock-pouts, but straightens himself soon enough, a gleeful smirk soon decorating his expression. "You also know me all too well." 

Minseok returns the smirk with one of his own. "I suspect you have something in store for me?" 

"Bingo," Zitao pretends as though he's shooting at Minseok with a finger gun. He seems immensely pleased with himself, his smile almost sharp and scheming. "What if I told you I have a gunfire deal for you? And that dealer is someone from your home country?”

 _Now_ Minseok is _very_ interested indeed.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

There isn't much for Jongdae to look forward to these days, especially when his life has slipped into a complete shithole—no thanks to Seungri, of course. Day after day, his mornings are filled with one sexual encounter after another, doing his best to please his customers in bed and playing into their fantasies as much as he can—as much as he can tolerate, anyway. On the better days, he’d get a hefty tip from the more generous patrons of his. But on days when Jongdae isn’t all that lucky, he’d find himself with way too many bruises on his body to cover with makeup, and even more questioning stares from his half-sister Liyin as he struggles to hide the more obvious marks on his wrists beneath the sleeves of his jacket. 

His only reprieve is his singing job at the Rotten Love for him to fall back upon, to give him some semblance of normalcy, as well as the companionship of Liyin who’s still trying to coax Jongdae into telling her his problems.

(Jongdae supposes that no matter how hard he’s been trying, he isn’t all that good at hiding his own emotions yet.

He ignores that ugly voice in his head, telling him he’s doing this on purpose, that he’s only craving for the attention he’s getting from everyone around him who asks him if everything’s alright whenever they see him being moody.)

Things, however, took a better turn on a cool Thursday night, before the intrusion of the weekend crowd. It's a relatively slow day for Jongdae, even at his other—more unsavoury—job, and he feels oddly refreshed for once. His only customer that morning hadn't wanted anything else but slow, passionate sex, and Jongdae was more than ready to give him just that. It's a good change, since rarely anyone who hired Jongdae wanted anything close to vanilla sex these days. 

He had just finished his set at the Rotten Love to the deafening cheers of the crowd, a wide grin plastered on his face as he made his way backstage, when Liyin approached him with a mysterious smile and her customary big, warm hug for a job well done on stage. 

“Someone’s here to see you,” Liyin tells him when she finally lets go of him, smile still playing on her pink lips even though Jongdae’s completely sweaty from standing under the spotlights in a leather jacket. Liyin has never begrudged his existence, or how gross Jongdae can be sometimes, and she has never failed to make Jongdae feel _accepted_. She's godsent. 

Jongdae’s pulse soars at the statement, wondering if Minseok's finally here at the bar. 

Jongdae hadn’t seen him in the crowd earlier, and was rather bummed that Minseok had missed his set. Jongdae had picked out a fresh list of songs that evening, and had wanted Minseok to be there to watch him perform the songs he'd composed. He couldn't stop himself from being disappointed, despite knowing that Minseok probably had something important to attend to. Minseok's life doesn't revolve around him; there's no label to their relationship just yet, and Jongdae would probably come off as presumptuous to think that Minseok would stick around longer than he already has. He doesn't doubt that Minseok would look at him with disgust once the truth about Jongdae's other job comes out in the open.

He doesn't want to think about that inadvertent future just yet. 

"Who is it?" Jongdae asks, barely stopping himself from sounding too hopeful, even though he's not ashamed to let Liyin know how much he actually likes Minseok and enjoys his company. Liyin will probably tease him after the night is over, but that's something for Jongdae to worry about later. 

"You'll know when you head out. They're in the booth closest to the right of the stage," Liyin says mysteriously, and Jongdae realises with a start why he hadn't noticed his special guest for the evening. 

While offering one of the most perfect views of the stage, that particular booth doesn't actually fall under the line of sight of the performer. There's a spotlight hanging above the booth, and Jongdae would have been blinded by the bright lights if he ever looked in its general direction. If his guest happens to be Minseok, it doesn't quite make sense for him to pick that booth instead of his usual one at the back of the bar—Minseok has made it _quite_ clear that he enjoys seeing Jongdae's flushed expression when their eyes meet across the floor, and often smirks at Jongdae to make his appreciation known. 

Surely Minseok knows how Jongdae would grow hard from one sultry look of his, and Jongdae would retaliate with a sinful roll of his hips as he belts out his song, glancing at Minseok from beneath his smoky eyes. Minseok’s erection straining against the confines of his pants doesn’t go unnoticed when Jongdae joins him at the booth, either, but they have never taken things a step further. 

The subtle push and pull is what Jongdae anticipates every night. The time will eventually come. He’s eager to find out who’d be the first to cave.

Not knowing what to expect, Jongdae quickly changes out of his sweaty performance outfit into a fresh set of clothes—a pair of form-fitting black jeans and a teal-coloured oxford shirt which he knows complements his complexion well—and makes his way to the main area of the Rotten Love once again. He gets several compliments from the regular customers along the way, which he accepts with a gracious laugh and a shy duck of his head. He knows the contrast between his confident on-stage personality and his off-stage coyness tends to be a hit with the patrons, and it has never failed him yet. Ultimately, though, his strides are sure, _determined_ as he heads towards the booth Liyin had told him about. 

Nevertheless, Jongdae jaw drops wide open mere moments later, when he finds a familiar face grinning back at him from the booth. Despite having half of his face covered by the black cap he’s wearing, it’s considerably easy for Jongdae to recognise him. Jongdae didn't spend a greater part of his time here in Beijing with the other man for nothing, after all. 

"Yixing!" He greets excitedly, all while making sure he's not loud enough to attract unwanted attention. “What the hell are you doing here?!” 

Yixing is quick to rise from his seat to envelop Jongdae in a big, warm hug. Jongdae can practically hear Yixing’s smile in his words when he says, “I’ve missed you, old friend. Thought I should drop by and say ‘hi’ since it’s been such a long while.” 

“You still talk like an old timer,” Jongdae wrinkles his nose in jest as he pulls away and scoots into the booth, grinning from ear to ear as Henry brings them both a mug of cold beer—the way Jongdae likes it. "Aren't you supposed to be popular with the young girls? You're going to lose your fans if you keep up with this image, you know." 

Instead of being offended by Jongdae's words, Yixing only laughs aloud. The corner of his eyes are crinkled with mirth, but Jongdae can still see the tired circles beneath them. There's no doubt Yixing has been pushing himself past the point of exhaustion again, preferring to compose new songs instead of sleeping like a normal human being should. Jongdae has berated him time and again about his terrible habit of perpetual self-sleep-deprivation, but Yixing never learns. 

"They like it when I nag at them for not taking better care of themselves," Yixing says sagely, like he's extremely pleased with himself. He probably _is_ ; Jongdae remembers the times when Yixing had replied to his fans' comments on Weibo, quoting the original post with some sort of wise advice that defines _Yixing_. Needless to say, Yixing's fans completely lost it. 

"Yeah, yeah. Showoff," Jongdae sniffs, clinking his mug with Yixing's when the other man lifts his beer in a toast. "Seriously, though, what brings you here? You don't seem like the type of person who'd risk your neck coming to places like this." 

To highlight his point, he gestures at the rest of the bar; the Rotten Love has definitely seen better days, some of its furniture falling apart little by little. Its owner absolutely refuses to splurge on renovation works, concealing his stinginess with a poorly crafted lie of wanting the bar to maintain its old-time charm. They all know it doesn't work that way; with the dilapidating state of the Rotten Love, no sane customer would even think of coming back twice, if not for the sake of nostalgia and the friends whom they've made over the years. 

Besides, the crowd that gathers here at the Rotten Love aren't exactly exemplary citizens of the city, either. If word gets out that the patrons of the Rotten Love are dabbling with illicit substances, and if Yixing gets caught walking out of these very doors, it could very well spell the end of Yixing's precious singing career. Jongdae doesn’t doubt that Yixing’s working experience at the Rotten Love hasn’t been made known to the public. His entertainment company has enough reputation in the Chinese music industry to suppress this information from being leaked, and even more money to sue those who even dared to think about doing so. 

Nevertheless, Yixing only responds with a beatific smile, and his mesmerising dimple makes its presence known. He’s removed his mask in favour of enjoying his drink, allowing the shadows falling upon the booth to do its job of keeping Yixing out of public eye in the meantime. Again, _risky_. “Well, what if I told you I managed to talk my company into giving you a chance?” 

“Chance?” Jongdae repeats, raising an eyebrow at his friend. “What chance?” 

That’s when someone else slips into the booth with their hand outstretched, toothy grin blinding even in the dim lighting, beaming wider still after catching the bewildered look that must be on Jongdae’s face. “A chance to train and record with our company,” the newcomer offers, patiently waiting for Jongdae to shake her perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Li Na, an agent from Xingchen Entertainment. Yixing brought me here to listen to your set, and I’m letting you know on behalf of our company that we are _very interested_ to sign with you indeed.”

Jongdae _does_ take the lady’s hand in his after some time, but he still blinks at her owlishly, not quite understanding the current turn of events. And he voices it out, too, blurting out a confused: “Wait, are you guys pulling my leg here or something?”

It only makes Yixing laugh even more. “I wouldn’t play such a horrible prank on you, Zhongda,” he says, before his features soften even more. “I know how much you want this, after all.” 

Jongdae sniffs at Yixing’s mellow intonation. Indeed, he’d expressed his strong desire to be a singer with a record label to Yixing once, and had teared up reminiscing how his parents had been vehemently against it. They told him it wouldn’t bring in the money, that he wouldn’t have any future in the industry, when there are so many people who are far more talented than Jongdae dabbling in it. And Jongdae had grown up believing in them, until he finally moved out of his home country and found a new footing in this city. 

Jongdae is so, so tempted to take Yixing and his agent up on the offer, when they're practically dangling the opportunity right in front of his face. Chances like this don't come by all the time, especially when Jongdae's hidden away in grubby clubs like the Rotten Love where no one from the music industry would stop by. 

He desperately hopes that his dreams _could_ come true, here in this city where he's still trying to stay afloat. 

"I—" Jongdae speaks up moments later, at the very same time that another new voice joins them at the table. 

"I knew I recognised you from somewhere!" An obese man dressed in a poorly-fitting waistcoat and a shirt in an ugly shade of moss green slams his palms on the table, alarming all three of them. His overeager face intrudes Jongdae's personal space in the matter of seconds, and Jongdae has to shrink back further into the booth, scrunching his nose at the offensive smell of onions and garlic emanating from the man's mouth. “I missed you dearly! You wouldn’t even return my calls!” 

For a moment, Jongdae wants to tell the man that he must have mistaken Jongdae for someone else, because Jongdae has never seen him before—and _then_ the realisation strikes him like a bolt of lightning. 

Just over a month ago, Jongdae had been tied to the bedpost by this very man, suffocating under his weight as he pounded into Jongdae. He wishes he didn’t remember the encounter, because the experience had been so unpleasant—body odour, sweat, and all—but unfortunately for him, it seems that his brain isn’t planning on cooperating with him any time soon. 

Laughing nervously, Jongdae tries to push the man away. “I think you’ve got the wrong person, sir. You must be drunk.” He can sense Yixing’s questioning gaze on him, and he forces himself to swallow his spit, hoping hard that his words came out as calmly as he had intended them to. 

“Impossible!” The man bellows, pushing into Jongdae’s personal bubble once again to scrutinise his face. “There’s no way I would forget a pretty face like yours, Chen! You were such a pleasure in bed, too!” 

At this point in time, Jongdae is pretty sure the blood has drained completely from his face. He can feel the tingling numbness in his fingertips, his extremities going ice cold at what the man had just said right in front of Yixing. Still, Jongdae refuses to give in, maintaining a straight face as he stares back at the man. “My name’s not Chen, sir. I am sure you _definitely_ have the wrong man.”

What he doesn’t expect, though, is for the man to bark out a harsh laugh and reach for him again, chubby arm steady as he grabs Jongdae by the shoulder. Even when the man’s cheeks are tinged red from the alcohol in his system, there’s lucidity in his gaze, and Jongdae feels the fear grappling at him once again. 

“I know your real name isn’t Chen, either,” the man says, before leaning in to whisper in Jongdae’s ear. “Now do you want to come along with me, just like the good little pup you were a couple of weeks ago, or do you want me to let your _friends_ know what exactly you’ve been up to?” There’s the promise of a threat in his words, one that tells Jongdae this man knows way too much for his own good. 

There’s also only one way the man could’ve found out about Jongdae’s real name: Seungri. 

Before Jongdae could even respond further, he’s taken by surprise when the man is yanked away from him by the back of his shirt, the force causing the man to stumble in an effort to regain his footing. It’s a shame that he didn’t fall flat on his ass—it would certainly be a sight to behold—but Jongdae soon finds that it’s not that important after all. 

There’s nothing in this world that could make Jongdae happier than seeing Minseok standing a mere several steps away from him, and _damn_ if Jongdae doesn’t find a livid Minseok hot. 

“Did you not hear him? He doesn’t know you,” Minseok stares the man down, knuckles held firmly by his side. It almost seems as though he’s about to throw a punch. “Take a hike and get lost.” 

Unfortunately, the man doesn’t get the hint. He angrily dusts his clothes off and straightens the fabric again before approaching Minseok threateningly—as threateningly as a red balloon on the verge of popping, anyway. He’s flushed up to the tip of his ears, which Jongdae surmises is from a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and Jongdae finds it a rather amusing sight to behold. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The man seethes, grabbing Minseok by the collar and breathing right down at him. He probably thinks that he still has the upper-hand over Minseok by sheer virtue of size, or the alcohol in his system is giving him a whole lot of bravado, because he doesn’t seem to be the least bit intimidated by the way Minseok is staring at him coldly. Instead, he tries to threaten Minseok with his words again. “Don’t you have any idea who am I? I can make you disappear from Beijing before you can even say your na—”

Everything that happens next occurs so quickly, one would have missed it if they blinked. But Jongdae sees it all too clearly, from the way Minseok heaves a quiet, annoyed sigh before the light in his eyes changes, and he’s twisting the man’s arm behind his back when Jongdae notices it next. A loud thud brings everyone’s attentions to the table, where the man’s face is already pinned against the polished wood, expressions contorted in agony. 

“I won’t repeat myself again,” Minseok tells him, voice surprisingly level for the amount of anger reflected in his eyes. “Get out, and never show your face in this bar again if you know what’s good for you. Do you understand me?”

It’s at this point that the man finally, _finally_ understands that Minseok meant every word he said—and wouldn’t hesitate to actually break a bone or two if needed—for he turns several shades paler when Minseok applies more pressure on his arm. Jongdae can only imagine the amount of pain he’s experiencing, but frankly, he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man. Not after what he’d done to Jongdae in bed all those weeks ago. 

It’s almost satisfying to watch that vile man scamper away the moment Minseok releases his hold on him, but Jongdae’s much too aware of Yixing’s questioning gaze on him to really enjoy it. Jongdae doesn’t even greet Minseok like he usually does, taking a deep breath before he slowly turns to glance at his long-time friend. 

As expected, there’s confusion in Yixing’s gaze at the exchange which had just taken place moments ago, and the scouting agent is wearing a questioning look—almost suspicious, even—as she looks at Jongdae, then at Minseok, and back. Jongdae can almost hear the questions running through their minds, none of them pleasant, and he almost dreads having to answer their queries. 

"What was that about, Jongdae?" Yixing's the first to find his voice. Jongdae gulps nervously, even when there isn't even a hint of accusation in Yixing's intonation. He doesn't exactly know how to best explain his situation, or why the man was so adamant that Jongdae followed him despite Jongdae maintaining that he had no idea who the man is.

Regardless, he's glad that the man didn't have the opportunity to call him nasty names, including the one he'd used repeatedly on Jongdae while fucking him— _whore_. 

_Nothing_ , Jongdae wants to say, but the word tastes bitter on the tip of his tongue, the way his words always do when he's about to tell a lie. Instead, Jongdae replies with a neutral-sounding, “I have absolutely no idea. He’s probably just really, really drunk.” Even then, his words sound forced to his own ears, but it’s not as though Jongdae has any other choice. 

Minseok—bless him—picks up on the awkwardness of the situation quickly enough, telling Jongdae he’ll speak to him later, before taking his leave. Jongdae's eyes follow after Minseok, watching as his love interest takes a seat at the bar counter, exchanging some words and a bright laugh with Henry who brings Minseok his regular drink. It makes Jongdae's insides feel warm for a while—a very, _very_ short while, before the tips of his fingers turn cold once again. 

"Mr. Zhongda?" Li Na's inquisitive voice is what drags him back to present time, and Jongdae's hands tremble beneath the table, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. There's doubt in her eyes when Jongdae turns to look at her once again, and suspicion laces her next words. "Are you sure you're alright? I mean, we'd like to make an offer to you, but—"

"I don't need it," Jongdae interrupts before he can even process what he's talking about, the fear clouding his rational thoughts, but the moment the words are out of his mouth, Jongdae finds that he can't stop himself from talking. "Whatever I may have told Yixing in the past, they no longer apply now. I'm perfectly content with my life right now, and I don't intend to throw myself under the limelight any more than I already have in this bar. Please, excuse me."

Jongdae extracts himself from the booth almost immediately, head hung low as he makes his way through the crowd on the dance floor. He can hear Yixing calling after him in panic, his friend's voice crisp even over the loud bass music thumping through the bar, but Jongdae doesn't want to stop—doesn't want to provide Yixing the opportunity to interrogate him for his sudden change in mind. He's sure Yixing must have seen the desire in his eyes when the offer was initially made to him, but he can't possibly let anyone know about the disgusting circumstances he's landed himself in. Not even Yixing. 

He doesn't want to lose the only true friend he has in this city. 

With those terrifying thoughts in his mind, Jongdae ducks into the back room, not even noticing the tears leaving a warm track behind on his cheeks.

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

Jongdae doesn't know how much time has passed since he'd disappeared into the back room of the Rotten Love. Minutes, _hours_ must have passed him by, but all Jongdae could think about is how he just blew his chances at ever being signed to an entertainment company, and to pursue his dreams as a proper singer, not one that’s hidden away in dingy bars like this. 

But what other choice does he have? He's essentially a prostitute, selling his body to make more money. Even if his intentions were to raise the funds needed to pay for his ailing father’s medical bills back in South Korea, no one would ever look past the label of a prostitute and sympathise with him for having to resort to such a job to make a living.

Life is harsh. It has always been harsh. He was supposed to have accepted the fact long ago. 

Jongdae hugs his knees and curls into himself. He tries hard to filter out the noise coming from the main area of the bar, and eventually succeeds countless moments later. He’s only glad that Yixing still remembers Jongdae’s little habits, knowing that he’d like to be left alone when he’s upset. Yixing never did venture into the dressing room in search for him, even if Yixing surely remembers his way around the Rotten Love as if it were the back of his hand.

Just as he’s about to fall asleep, though, a light knock on the door surprises him into full alertness. He turns around to find Liyin smiling softly at him, and he’s promptly choked up with emotion. If there’s one person in this world who wouldn’t judge him for his unfortunate choice of a side job, it would be Liyin. But he doesn’t want her to know, because Liyin would surely empty her life savings to help Jongdae out with his financial issues. He doesn’t want to trouble Liyin like that. 

“Yixing told me everything,” she informs as she takes a seat in the chair beside Jongdae. “He said you rejected the offer to join their company. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

Jongdae heaves a burdened sigh. “It’s complicated, Liyin _jie_. I can't do that right now. There's just… too many things to think about. Too many things to consider." 

Liyin glances at him thoughtfully for a brief moment, before offering him yet another warm smile. "I don't suppose you'd want to talk to me about it?" She asks, and there's a melancholic edge to her words. 

Jongdae's heart clenches again. 

"Not now, Liyin _jie_ ," he tries to return her smile, but he knows he's failing miserably at his attempts when his half-sibling sighs again. "I'll tell you eventually, but not now. I'm sorry." 

Liyin reaches over and rubs the back of his neck fondly, the way she always does when she senses that he's stressed out, and they fall into a comfortable silence. 

Jongdae's honestly so grateful for her presence in his life. His half-sister is always ready to listen, yet doesn't push him for answers when it's clear that he's not ready to divulge any information. She would always allow him to take his time to sort things out on his own, and would always be there waiting for him with open arms whenever he needs her the most. 

No words can describe how much Jongdae loves Liyin for that. 

"Tell you what," Liyin speaks up minutes later, once the muscles in Jongdae's shoulders have relaxed enough. "Why don't you take a couple of days off work? I'll put in a word to Zhenghe for you."

The suggestion has Jongdae straightening up in his seat at once, bewildered by Liyin's words. "What?! That's impossible! That dickhead wouldn't allow it!" 

Liyin laughs at his reaction as she pats his head, as though she's trying to pacify a child who's throwing a tantrum. “Because no one can replace your position in the bar?”

Jongdae nods, because it’s true. They haven’t been able to find a replacement for Yixing after he’d left to pursue his dreams a year ago. It’s why Jongdae has had to come in every single day of the week to sing, considering how Zhenghe refuses to let the Rotten Love go without a live performance for even a night. He doesn’t exactly begrudge it, but it _would_ be nice if he could actually take a break away from these four walls. 

“It’s fine. I’ll take your place instead,” Liyin tells him, laughing even more when Jongdae gawks at her. “What? Don’t look down on me, kiddo. I’m a decent singer, you know.” 

_That_ , Jongdae doesn’t doubt. He’s heard Liyin sing before—countless times—and she sounds exactly like her existence: angelic. It’s a well-kept secret between them both, though. Jongdae doesn’t want Liyin to receive unnecessary harassment from the rest of the patrons to the bar, unlike what had happened to the other girl who was Rotten Love’s resident singer before Jongdae came into the picture. Yixing’s expressions were grim when he had recounted the girl’s experience to Jongdae all those years ago, and it’s something they absolutely refused to talk about ever since. Even Liyin would put in a word of objection when Zhenghe tried to hire another girl instead of Jongdae to fill in that particular position. 

Zhenghe isn’t exactly the type of boss who’d protect his workers, after all. It’s better this way, getting only males to sing at the Rotten Love. It’s also a good thing Zhenghe listens to Liyin all the time, considering how smitten he is with her.

But even if Liyin is smart enough in protecting herself and warding off unwanted advances, Jongdae is _still_ not comfortable with the idea of letting his beloved sister stand in his stead. Jongdae wouldn’t be able to let himself live it down if anything untoward happened to her. 

As if reading his thoughts, Liyin pats him on the cheek again. “Don’t you worry about me. I have Henry and the rest of the guys to help me out if I run into trouble.” 

Jongdae holds back a smile. The offer is much too tempting to not take up, and he’s honestly up for a good rest—no socialising, no smiling and pretending that he’s fine. At least a couple of days away from this hectic lifestyle would be a warm welcome. 

“You better stay safe. Otherwise _I’ll_ be the one chastising you instead,” Jongdae tells her with mock seriousness. He was about to say _I’m going to tell mom on you_ , but the thought itself sends waves of pain spiking through his chest. He wishes life was simpler, though the cold hard truth still remains that he’s not on proper talking terms with their mother. 

Liyin doesn’t have to know that, however. 

At his indirect agreement to go on a break as per her request, Liyin beams and gently pulls him out of the chair. “I’m supposed to be the one worrying after you, not the other way round, brat,” she says, all while leading him towards the dressing room door. “Now go on and get out of here. Someone has been has been waiting for you all night.” 

For a brief moment, Jongdae is overcome with panic, thinking that Yixing might be waiting to confront him, but his worries are quickly put to rest when Liyin opens up the door.

Right outside the room stands Minseok in his black denim glory, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the linoleum flooring out of nervousness. Minseok positively brightens up the moment he sees Jongdae exiting the room, pushing himself away from the wall to stand at full height. 

It's embarrassing, but Jongdae can feel himself blushing at the attention Minseok is giving him.

"I'm leaving my baby brother in your good hands, Minseok-sshi. Please take his mind off everything that has happened tonight, will you?" Liyin quips, and gives Jongdae another light push on the small of his back. Jongdae is taken by surprise at her action, yelping a little when he loses his balance, but he thankfully catches himself before he barrels right into Minseok. Liyin merely grins unrepentantly when Jongdae frowns at her—for both her actions and her words. 

Minseok, on the other hand, answers her completely seriously, finishing off his words with a salute. "Yes ma'am. You can count on me." 

Jongdae _would_ have laughed at the sight, if Liyin hadn't tip-toed up to him and whispered _'he's definitely a keeper'_ in Jongdae's ear, leaving his cheeks burning red hot at the implication again. Trust his sister to embarrass him every moment she gets. 

He doesn’t get to protest against Liyin’s words, however. She ducks back into the dressing room without even providing him the opportunity to speak, immediately after giving him a smug smile and a jaunty wave, and the fight bleeds out of Jongdae’s being. He can’t possibly bring himself to stay annoyed at his beloved sister for long, anyway. 

“So…” Minseok voices up moments later, sounding as uncertain as he looks when Jongdae turns towards him. “Do you want to go out with me somewhere or something?” 

He’s nervous and unsure, a huge contrast from the aggressive, livid side Jongdae had witnessed mere hours ago. Jongdae will never get tired of saying it, but seeing Minseok like this—it’s really, _really_ endearing. Above all, Jongdae is just glad that Minseok trusts him enough to show such a vulnerable side of himself to Jongdae. 

“Where do you have in mind?” Jongdae asks with a smile. “I have the rest of the night _and_ the rest of the week free, anyway.” 

Hearing that, Minseok breaks into a boyish grin. “Do you happen to like airports?”

 

▲ ▽ ▲ ▽ ▲

 

When Minseok had mentioned about the airport, Jongdae had imagined them going on an impromptu shopping trip around the terminal, or on a food hunt despite the crazy price tags. Perhaps something more far-fetched like purchasing tickets for a flight out to the other provinces on a silly whim. Anything at all to keep Jongdae's mind off the incidents which had transpired that evening.

It _definitely_ doesn’t include sneaking past airport security to get into an off-limits stairwell, which leads them to the rooftop of the Departures wing. It doesn’t include having an impromptu midnight picnic on said rooftop, either. But when Jongdae makes himself comfortable on the cool concrete roof and stares at the star-studded sky above them, he finds that nothing else actually matters. 

Minseok is a man full of surprises indeed. 

There are hundreds of questions raging in Jongdae's mind—a good number of them involve asking Minseok _how_ on earth he had managed the feat—but Jongdae decides to file them away for later. He doesn't want to ruin the mood, not when Minseok's so focused on laying out their food on a piece of cloth. The food isn't much, merely sandwiches and coffee bought off the shelves of a café which was about to close for the day, but it's more than enough. 

"This is where I like to hide away from the world when I have stuff to think about," Minseok says once he's done, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he sits beside Jongdae, as though he knows what Jongdae's thinking about. His eyes are focused on the dark night skies, and Jongdae finds that the stars are reflected in them. It's mesmerising. 

"It's not exactly quiet—" Minseok continues, just as the engine of a plane roars above them, making a graceful descent onto the tarmac. "—but once you get used to it, it kind of becomes white noise in the background instead."

Jongdae picks up a cup of hot coffee and presses it to his own lips, watching as the plane rolls into its designated spot. "I think I can see the appeal of doing this," he admits. Watching the blinking lights on the tail and the wings of the airplanes is rather hypnotising, and Jongdae finds himself being lulled into the comfort of his own thoughts as he tunes the rest of his environment out. 

There's no one to disturb them up here, unless some security personnel decides to go through the security camera footage and finds them climbing up the stairs. Jongdae honestly doubts that; Minseok sounds like a seasoned visitor, and he would have been thrown into jail by now if he had ever gotten caught.

They remain silent for a long while, merely sipping on their coffees and munching slowly on their sandwiches, until Minseok decides to speak up again. 

"Are you okay?" He asks. To the ears of others, it probably sounds like a general question, but Jongdae knows what exactly Minseok means. The man at the bar and the altercation between him and Jongdae. "You looked rather shaken back there. Do you want to talk about it?" 

Jongdae sighs. "It's complicated. I don't think I'm quite prepared to discuss about it yet. Maybe someday." 

"Someday it is. Whenever you're ready. I'll hold you up on that promise," Minseok nods in agreement, and leaves the matter at that. 

Jongdae can't describe how thankful he is that Minseok didn't decide to pursue the issue. He's met plenty others who refuses to put their queries to rest, continuously pushing and pushing for answers even when it's clear that Jongdae doesn't feel like sharing his thoughts. Needless to say, these incidents invariably end up turning ugly, and Jongdae would have to cut these toxic people out of his life. 

He shudders at the mere thought of them. 

"Thank you—" Jongdae says sincerely, turning to smile at Minseok, "—for helping me out at the bar, and for not pressing on. I feel like such a weak idiot for not being capable of standing up for myself." 

Their shoulders are pressed together, even when there's plenty of space all around them, but Jongdae doesn't mind it. Minseok's presence is comforting, and he wishes this moment could remain forever. It's a good distraction from the shit he's been experiencing of late, and Jongdae really, _really_ likes Minseok. 

"You're welcome. And you're not weak," Minseok comforts him. "I think you're strong for not buckling under the pressure when you were being harassed in such a manner."

"Now you're just flattering me," Jongdae laughs, even when he becomes acutely aware that the distance between their bodies is dwindling further still. Minseok is leaning towards him even more now, gaze serious, and Jongdae finds himself responding in kind. 

"I'm just speaking the truth," Minseok continues telling him, voice dropping into a mere hush, and Jongdae doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker down towards Jongdae's lips when his tongue darts out to lick them. "I can teach you some tricks in self-defense, if you'd allow me." 

"Really?" Jongdae chokes the word out after a short moment, thoughts completely preoccupied by Minseok's warm breaths fanning across his face. Their lips are so incredibly close, Jongdae would probably be able to kiss him if he were to lean in just a little more—

—but they jump apart when yet another plane roars above them, gradually ascending towards the clouds. The laughter bubbles from their throats when they notice how bewildered they both look, loud above the sound of the plane's engines, and Jongdae ends up barreling into Minseok's arms from laughing too hard.

Jongdae's heart pounds wildly against his ribcage, both from surprise and from regret at the missed opportunity, but the moment is unfortunately lost. They don't attempt to continue where they had left off before they were rudely interrupted, although Jongdae is secretly pleased to see his regret reflected on Minseok's expressions when he finally straightens up. At least he knows it's not a one-sided thing. 

"Please don't bring any weak-hearted persons up here, or you might be sued for attempted murder," Jongdae takes a jab at Minseok, who rolls his eyes before offering Jongdae a hand. He's not really offended, though, judging by the smile he's trying to hold back. 

"I won't. This will be our private sanctuary. No one else would find out about it," Minseok tells him, and the way Minseok says _our_ holds a multitude of promises. Jongdae's skin tingles in anticipation, cheeks growing warm from being flustered. 

To hide his embarrassment, Jongdae takes off the moment he gets to his feet, hiding his face from view as he calls out, "You better keep your promise of teaching me how to defend myself, Minseok! I don't like feeling cheated by empty words!" 

Minseok's responding laughter carrying through the mid-autumn breeze is like music to Jongdae's ears.


End file.
